


Yours is the Earth (Hold On, Hold On)

by chickenlivesinpumpkin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Altered Mental States, Anal Fingering, Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, Horror Elements, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oral Sex, Post-War, Restraints, Rimming, Romance, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 127,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they first meet after the end of the war, Draco doesn't want anything to do with Harry. But as time goes by, Draco's growing love may be the only thing that can save them both, because after a serious accident in the Forbidden Forest, Draco's personality begins to undergo subtle changes. At first, Harry credits this to a new enthusiasm for life. But as the days pass and Draco's behavior becomes more and more mysterious, Harry begins to suspect that something bigger--and darker--is at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Story moves back and forth between current action and flashbacks to the beginning of the relationship. This is why there are tags for both 'first time' and 'established relationship.'
> 
> 2\. I do not own any of the characters in this story. I am making no money--I just love spending time with the boys.
> 
> 3\. Title of the story comes from the Rudyard Kipling poem "If."

Ice crystals shone where late evening light dappled the January snow beneath the overgrown trees of the Forbidden Forest. They made a satisfying crunch underneath Harry’s boots as he walked, and his breath fogged the air before him. Birds weren’t calling, but occasionally he could hear the low rustle of bush or thicket as some small critter startled and fled from his presence.

He made good time, arriving at the boulder mound in less than forty minutes. The formation of stacked stone reached nearly twenty feet into the air and spread out in a rough circle nearly sixty feet in diameter. Near the Southern border, not far from where Harry approached, a section had collapsed into a vast sinkhole, leaving sheared rock at the edges. The maw gaped black and stark against the white drifts and tired winter trees, waiting like a fetid mouth, ready to devour.

“You’ve taken enough,” Harry whispered. He walked to the edge of the boundary spell Flitwick had cast, a bright blue orb that kept any hapless people or animals from falling into the cavern, but didn’t breach it. That wasn’t why he’d come. He simply wanted to remember, to see.

It had been such a small moment that started it all. They’d been talking, just their usual patter of insults and flirtation, although Harry couldn’t remember the specifics even after putting real effort into it. He’d looked away for a minute, just a minute, his attention caught by something utterly inconsequential, when the ground gave a mighty lurch behind him and the boulders trembled and the earth opened. And when Harry looked back, Draco was gone.

Just…gone.

*

 A blooming red agony in his skull and spine. Scree beneath him. Pitch black all around but for the wide white oval of the sky far, far above him. He didn’t move, didn’t think he could. Breathing took effort enough.

A voice calling. Harry? Yes, that was Harry, distant and echoing. And for a heartbeat, the rich, frightened tenor of that voice made Draco’s chest ache with longing. Harry would save him, Harry would hold him close, and Draco would feel that same quiet, desperate need that Harry always brought out in him. Then this pain would fade and he would be back in the world and he would be safe once more.

He opened his mouth, tried to call, because there was panic in Harry’s voice. Draco realized that Harry could not see the bottom of the pit, could not know if he was alive. _Soothe him_ , Draco thought. _Let him know you’re alive. Do it._ But no sound emerged. At least, not from his throat.

Instead, the noise came from nearby. A rustle in the dark. Movement. Something shifting.

Draco’s attention was torn between the sheer fire in his body and the scrabbling sounds off to his left. His eyes searched the darkness frantically, but he could see nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The noise got closer. It paused. It darted forward. Paused.

 _Harry!_ Draco tried to shout. He managed to shift, and pure torture burst through him. His jaw locked and he trembled under the lash of it.

The noise came again. Closer. Closer.

Something brushed his arm. If he’d been able to, he would’ve screamed.

Then pressure, terrible pressure, meaty, thick pressure, so sudden and vicious that he had no time to resist, and Draco yielded helplessly beneath it. Everything he was compressed within him. There could be no yelling now, there was no room for his voice within him, just this impossible, smothering weight. He shrank like a candle flame under breath. He was going out, going under, caving like the earth above him had. But here, there was no bottom.

 _Harry! Harry! Help, please help_ …but the pressure swelled, forcing him smaller. He shrank, folded, all but the tiniest little fragment of his mind…soul…self, whatever the word might be.

**Just go.**

_No_ , Draco thought, and terror fluttered in what little of him remained. He fought, dug in, gripped with everything he had left.

**Let go.**

_No! Harry…please…_

**Let me have it.**

_Hold on_ , Draco thought desperately. The pressure increased… _wait for Harry…he will come…he will come_...

**Why don’t you just let me?**

_Hold on._

**I’ll get everything in the end anyway.**

_Hold on_.

**You’ve already lost, little one.**

_Hold on, hold on._

 *

The smell of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts was as familiar to Harry as that of the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. It was potions and clean cotton and Madam Pomfrey’s soap. It was pain and recovery and safety.

And now, with Draco pale and silent between white sheets, it was waiting.

Merlin, the waiting.

Harry had brought Draco here with Flitwick and McGonagall’s help (summoned with an emergency Patronus) simply because Hogwarts was closest. He’d left Hermione and Madam Pomfrey debating whether or not to move Draco to St. Mungo’s. Harry simply didn’t know enough about healing to offer an opinion, and he trusted Hermione’s opinion and skills.

As they murmured to each other, Harry caught fragments of sentences. Broken back…skull fracture…internal bleeding…increased heart rate…abnormal response to magical interventions... Then he tuned it out, unable to hear any more.

Ron arrived, out of breath and flushed, and he came immediately to Harry’s side. He blanched at the sight of Draco—still blood-stained and dirty from the fall at that point—and turned to wrap Harry in a hug.

“He’s a tough bastard,” Ron muttered. “He’s survived a hell of a lot worse than this.”

“I know,” Harry said, unable to repeat the things that he’d heard the witches saying.

Ron pulled back and studied Harry. “You look exhausted. How long have you been here?”

“An hour, maybe.”

“Tea? A sandwich?”

The thought of food or drink made him want to vomit, but Ron looked so eager to help that Harry shrugged agreement. Ron paused to squeeze Hermione’s hand and receive a tired smile, then disappeared back into the hall. He was back rather quickly, and he set down a loaded tray, only to move it away when Harry apologized softly and shook his head.

Finally, the conference between the witches ended. Hermione came to where Harry sat beside Draco’s bed and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he and Ron were listening, she murmured, “He won’t survive a move to St. Mungo’s, so I’m going to firecall them to consult with some of my colleagues. We’re going to do everything we can, Harry, I promise you.” She paused, and when she spoke next her voice wobbled. “There’s a definite chance he’ll recover, Harry, but I’m not…”

“I understand,” Harry said, numb and choking and still. He patted her hand, because he did understand. How could he not? Draco was not calm in injury; his blue-tinged lips moved as if he were trying to form words, his fingers twitched constantly, his eyes moved manically beneath his shut lids. Harry knew just how close they strayed to an unbearable ending.

Until then, it was waiting.

Waiting on the next panting breath to lift the chest, the next flutter of lashes that came to nothing, the next clutch of his fingers that subsided. Waiting with mingled hope and dread.

“Hold on,” Harry whispered, smoothing silky hair away from a high, noble forehead. “Don’t leave me. Just hold on, Draco.”

 *

 Two years and three months before the trip to collect potion ingredients in the Forbidden Forest, Harry walked reluctantly into the first session of Malfoy’s six-week-long series of potions lectures at the Ministry. He nodded at Dean Thomas and got a friendly smile in return, but sank into a chair beside Ron just inside the door to the conference room.

“I thought proximity to an exit in the event of impending Gryffindor-on-Slytherin murder would be a good idea,” Ron said.

“And they say Hermione’s the brains of your particular operation,” Harry replied.

“Well, she’s a freak that way,” Ron admitted. “But she’s my freak.”

Harry smiled half-heartedly; his mood had been shitty ever since Marrow, the Head of the Auror Office, had explained that Harry’s enrollment in Malfoy’s little course was not open to negotiation. There’d been an upswing in potion related accidents and attacks lately, suggestions of a virulent potions ring developing, and the Ministry had decided to take action to prepare its staff. If it had been anyone but Malfoy teaching, Harry would’ve been in full support of the initiative. But despite Malfoy’s very low profile since the war—not to mention his considerable contributions to the field of beneficial potions since he’d attained his Mastery—Harry still felt strong enmity at even the mention of the git’s name.

Harry and Ron chit-chatted a bit while the conference room slowly filled. Other Aurors nodded greetings or stopped to talk while they waited for the lecture to begin, and soon the low hum of conversation filled the air. This fell abruptly silent when Malfoy entered at five till the hour.

After all, Ministry-ordered lecture or not, reformed or not, Draco Malfoy’s skin bore the Mark, and this was a room full of wizards with sharp, suspicious natures. So it was that Malfoy walked to the front of the room in painfully alert stillness, with full attention on him, Harry’s in particular.

Harry was a little taken aback at his first look at the blond, for the simple reason that in the interim between the war and the present, Malfoy had grown into his full adult masculinity.

And it was surprisingly affecting.

Bad enough that he’d gained a couple more inches in height—no surprise, as Harry had as well with the dregs of puberty, topping out finally at five foot eleven. While he couldn’t help thinking that this meant that Malfoy’s eyes would be on a level with Harry’s mouth, he refused to make anything of this fact. Harder to ignore was the realization that those extra inches had contributed to a long, lean body that moved with easy athleticism as he neatly crossed the room, a leather briefcase in one hand. Interestingly, that body was clothed in a perfectly-tailored Muggle suit rather than robes—gray pinstripes with a matching waistcoat and Windsor-knotted navy tie. His hair was expensively cut and styled.

More disturbing, Malfoy had grown into those pointy features, and now he possessed a rather stern, hollow-cheeked beauty that emphasized a soft mouth and slightly-tilted gray eyes. His cheekbones were high, his skin perfectly clear and pale, and his jaw firm. He’d become downright striking really, Harry admitted angrily.

Worst of all, somewhere along the way Malfoy had managed to get rid of the smug sneer; what remained was politely approachable, professional, and direct. The boy he’d been was only barely visible in that face, for all the similarity in their features. Malfoy seemed a new creature entirely, one almost unrecognizable, and Harry had to remind himself that this was not a brutally attractive man before him; this was an enemy.

 _Fucker,_ Harry thought, feeling a strong pulse of interest pooling in his belly. He took this rather personally. _Fucking rat bastard. Of course you couldn’t just be as pinched and snotty as you were before. You little shit._

“Good morning,” Malfoy said, surveying the room with those eyes as he set his briefcase on the table beside the podium. “I’d like it if we could go around and introduce ourselves so I can begin to learn your names.” As the Aurors spoke up, one by one, Malfoy studied their faces, clearly committing them to memory. His gaze neither lingered nor skipped over Harry or Ron. He gave the assembled group a polite nod when they’d all finished, and used his wand to levitate thick packets of paper to each student. Harry caught his and flipped through it. He found himself frowning resentfully at impressively professional diagrams and formulas for countless potions and passages of (Harry noted with irritation) well-written text.

“We’ll be covering a wide array of legal and illegal potions in this lecture; some of it will be revision of topics covered in school. We’ll be talking primarily about how to identify and treat obscure and dangerous potions, and this will require a large amount of practical study. Any of you who’ve studied under Professor Severus Snape will no doubt be more than capable of the basic brewing exercises we’ll be undertaking with just a little polishing up of your skills.”

None of this—the mention of Snape or Malfoy’s clear respect for the man—made Harry any more inclined to forgive Malfoy for becoming attractive in the six years since the war. While Harry’s unpleasant associations of Snape had been largely muted by the professor’s role in the war, he still didn’t enjoy the reminder of dozens of humiliating interactions in the dungeons when Snape and Malfoy had teamed up to make Harry’s life hell.

But as the lecture proceeded, Harry was forced to admit that Malfoy had approached his commission with laudable efficiency and gravity. He struck a good balance between giving the Aurors their due as intelligent people with some experience with dangerous substances and ensuring that everything was explained thoroughly. He allowed discussion when there was more than one way to handle a particular brew, and he answered questions without a hint of his patented Malfoy superiority.

Harry was starting to think he might be possessed.

Afterwards, Harry remained in his seat as the others filed out. Ron gave him a questioning glance when he saw that Harry wasn’t leaving. That glance turned admonishing and wary when Harry jerked his chin in a silent order to go. Finally Ron did, shaking his head.

Malfoy had turned to face the blackboard, and stood perfectly still as Harry slowly rose and headed to the front of the room. He eased up behind the other man, coming up on his left, and noticed with surprise that Malfoy’s eyes were closed tightly. His hands were shaking on the quill he gripped, and he blew out several long, slow breaths. Harry took this in with still more astonishment.

Malfoy had been _nervous_. He’d covered it so well that Harry had never suspected, but the evidence was incontrovertible at the moment. It made sense in retrospect; a former Death Eater, walking into a room full of Aurors, put in a position where he would have to face the potential for outright hostility and hatred while still attempting to do his job. It would make anyone shaky. Despite this, he’d been cool and impressively collected.

Malfoy turned, then, and startled when he saw that he wasn’t alone after all. Harry caught the exact moment that Malfoy realized Harry had seen his nerves; his mouth tightened and annoyed embarrassment played briefly on his features. Then he swallowed it back, and his gaze returned to even professionalism.

“Potter. Is there something I can do for you?”

Harry was completely flummoxed. He had no idea who this person in front of him was—where was the tempestuous, spoiled brat? Where was the pomp and pride? Where had this careful control and maturity come from?

“Be _you_ ,” Harry snapped.

Malfoy gave a tiny, resigned nod, as if to say _of course._ He resumed packing up his briefcase. “Anything else?”

“What is this? What are you trying to prove?”

Malfoy’s jaw flexed. “I’ve a meeting,” he said politely. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Harry put a hand on Malfoy’s arm, stopping him leaving. “I want an answer.”

Malfoy looked down at Harry’s gripping fingertips, and for a second Harry caught a glimpse of real anger rising to the surface. The storm gathered and for a brief, gleeful moment, Harry could see that Malfoy was tempted to go for his wand. Then that impulse too was shuttered behind a blandly civil expression. “Not only are we at work, which makes this conversation ill-timed,” he said calmly, “but as I’m not under suspicion of any current crimes, I have no obligation to answer any of your questions. Please take your hand off of my arm.”

When Harry didn’t move, a hint of steel entered Malfoy’s voice.

“Release me now, Potter. Or this conversation will become an altercation, and it will be entirely of your own making.”

Harry had to admit that the last part of that sentence would be entirely true, and he slowly released Malfoy. He watched as the blond man eased around him and silently headed for the exit.

“I’m not falling for it,” Harry called after him.

Malfoy completely ignored the comment, and the door slapped closed behind him.

*

“Wait. I don’t understand, Hermione,” Harry bit out. “What is it, then?”

“We don’t know,” Hermione replied helplessly.

Distantly, Harry could hear the shouts and bustle of students in the halls, moving between classes. The afternoon sun shone through the windows, giving the Hospital Wing a cheerfully bright look completely in contrast with Harry’s current frame of mind. Ron and Madam Pomfrey wore similar pinched expressions of worry and confusion.

Harry scrubbed a hand at his forehead. He’d slept perhaps an hour over the last two days, and it wasn’t helping his ability to think clearly.

“But…he _fell_ ,” Harry said. “That’s all. It wasn’t a magical accident.”

“There’s something else at work,” Hermione said. Her hair was bushier than ever and she’d barely taken the time to bathe; in fact, if it hadn’t been for the necessity that she be able to focus, she wouldn’t have slept at all, either. “There’s no reason he should be responding like this. But until we know what it is, we can’t treat it.”

“What exactly is happening?” Ron asked.

“He’s running a fever,” Madam Pomfrey said.

“An infected cut,” Harry suggested.

“No,” The Mediwitch replied flatly. “We’ve given him the standard regimen for that, and any open wounds that could result in sepsis have completely resolved. We don’t know why his temperature is elevated, but it isn’t responding to spells or potions. His various organ systems continue to flirt with complete collapse. We’re holding those at bay, but as soon as we get his lungs stable his kidneys begin to buckle. We fix that and his heart goes into tachycardia.”

Harry noted absently that Madam Pomfrey looked exhausted. She looked _old_.

“If this were a strictly normal accident, he would be up and walking by now,” she continued. “Clearly, that is not the case, which means something else is interfering. The worst part is that he’s swiftly reaching a saturation point; there’s only so much magic the body can absorb before it ceases to respond. We’re trying to limit our treatments to only the most necessary, but there’s a chance that at some point in the next forty-eight hours, our interventions will cease to work.”

They all paused to look at Draco, jerking and gasping in the bed beside them.

“He’s dying,” Harry said numbly. “That’s what you’re saying.”

“No,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “We’re saying that we’re running out of medical options, and that will be true for as long as we don’t know what’s going on. But there’s something that might help. We need to investigate where he fell. He came into contact with something there that’s doing this.”

“I’ll go,” Ron said instantly.

“Mate,” Harry said, his chest immediately tight with gratitude and fear. “Thank you. Really. But whatever it is that’s doing this might…I don’t know—”

“I’ll be careful. I’ll take Flitwick and Gorrette. If we get there and we aren’t enough to get it done, I’ll call the office and get some Aurors out there. It’ll be perfectly safe.”

Harry knew that Ron had listed the two best professors for the task—Flitwick could do almost anything, and Liza Gorrette, the DADA professor, was more than capable in her own subject. But the thought of losing Ron was nearly as excruciating as the idea of losing Draco. Nearly.

For a moment, Harry considered going himself. But he was a wreck, he could admit it, and he’d be likely to miss something. Besides, Harry trusted Ron with his life—indeed, in this moment, he would be.

And if Harry weren’t here and Draco died…alone…he would never, ever forgive himself.

“Watch yourself,” Harry murmured. “And I appreciate it. You don’t know how much.” He took Ron’s hand in a rare show of affection, accepting the responding squeeze with a nod. He stood aside as Hermione kissed Ron and gave him a whispered order to use the utmost caution. Then Ron swept out, his freckled face bearing the same grim, steadily competent expression it did on dangerous missions.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself and drifted back to Draco’s bedside. Sinking down into his chair, he was vaguely aware of Madam Pomfrey and Hermione muttering to each other, bustling around casting occasional diagnostic spells and arranging for new potions to be brewed to replenish their rapidly-dwindling stock. He couldn’t hold Draco’s hand; the long, clever fingers were too jumpy. Instead, he touched Draco’s thigh through the single thin sheet. He could feel the heat of Draco’s fevered skin burning through the fabric.

“We’re going to figure it out,” Harry whispered.

*

**Have you had enough yet?**

_Hold on_.

The pressure continued to build. Slower now, but steady, immense, overwhelming.

**You’ve been quite impressive, but you can’t win this. Why not let go? Just…be at peace.**

_Harry will come._

**No, he won’t.**

_He will. He will. Hold on._

 *

Four hours later, Ron returned.

Harry leaped to his feet, almost skidding over the floor in his haste. Hermione wasn’t far behind, with Madam Pomfrey in the rear. Harry’s breath was lodged in his throat, but it didn’t take more than a few steps before Ron’s expression registered.

“No,” Harry choked out.

“I’m so sorry, mate,” Ron managed. His eyes were red-rimmed, the pity clear on his face. “There’s nothing. We tried every single spell we could think of. But it’s just an empty hollow, just a sinkhole like any other. Magically null. Not a sign. I went over every inch of that fucking place, Harry, I swear, and there’s…nothing.”

*

Three days after Draco’s fall into the sinkhole, he suffered a _grand mal_ seizure. His arms and legs thrashed, knocking vials and a box of tissues off the small tray at his bedside. He bit his tongue badly enough that blood colored his lips. He made terrifying grunting sounds. Madam Pomfrey cast the appropriate spells while Hermione used her small frame to keep Harry (shuddering and panicked, unaware that he was begging Draco to stop) on his feet.

Madam Pomfrey’s quick action subdued the seizure in less than a minute, and for the next six hours, Draco lay as if dead. Even his twitching stopped. At first, Harry found this a comfort, but then he realized that if the benefits of these spells—and the subsequent stillness—had outweighed the risks posed to that saturation response they’d been talking about, Madam Pomfrey and Hermione would’ve cast them earlier.

“You need to sleep,” Ron said at one point, and Harry allowed his friend to coax him into the adjacent bed.

“Wake me up if…”

“Of course, Harry. Just rest for now. I’ll be right here.”

Harry felt fingertips brush through his hair, and if he’d been more alert, this might have scared him; Ron was not given to comforting touches like that, and it was a sign of the strength of his fear. But Harry’s body was on the verge of collapse, and he couldn’t hold off sleep long enough to worry over it.

Harry slept for thirty minutes before waking in a near-panic, certain that Draco had died. As promised, Ron was there, and he hurried to reassure Harry that nothing had changed. Neither of them was surprised by Harry’s reaction: these short naps were all he could manage since the accident, and most of them ended with this wild terror making him bolt upright in bed. Ron brought him tea and soup from the Hogwarts kitchen and made meaningless small talk about ordinary subjects until he was able to calm somewhat.

Over the past four days, Harry had begun to exist in a kind of waking coma; it was far easier to let his brain fill with cotton and exhaustion than face the very real—and growing—certainty that Draco was going to die. And soon. His thoughts continued to focus on tiny, utterly stupid worries: Draco had used the last of the Marion berry jam that he liked at breakfast the day of the accident; Harry had not thought to wash Draco’s sweater, the gray one Mrs. Weasley had made for him on Christmas last year because she said the color brought out his eyes, and he would’ve liked to have the sweater here for Draco as the Hospital Wing sometimes got cold at night; Harry still had not fixed the shingle on the roof that kept thwapping at night when it was windy, and it was only a matter of time before Draco hurled something at his head for forgetting yet again despite promising to take care of it.

He would take those worries, and a hundred more besides, if Draco would just wake up. If they could just go back to that day. Harry would gladly suffer the fight that would come when he refused to let Draco go to the Forbidden Forest for potions ingredients. He would take the label of ‘controlling bastard’ if it meant undoing all of this. If it meant having Draco warm in his arms, breathing soft and gentle in natural sleep, or with his lips caught in a smirk when he found something amusing, or even spouting one of his incisive, too-honest observations of Harry or the world.

Harry would give anything to have Draco bending and writhing beneath him, lost to pleasure, clutching Harry close, those long legs wrapped around his hips. And after, wrapped cozy in the afterglow, the only time when Draco was truly soft and fond and affectionate, when he would kiss and nuzzle and murmur sweetness for the five-to-seven minutes (Harry knew the window well, because he had timed it) that it took for him to recover from orgasm.

Draco didn't love him. Harry knew this. Sometimes, in weak moments, he tried to convince himself otherwise by reminding himself that they lived together, that they had over two years invested in a relationship, that Draco was happier with Harry than he likely could be with anyone else. These things were all true, but that didn't change the fact that Draco had never said the words, and wouldn't have meant them anyway. He always kept a part of himself back, something that Harry couldn't quite reach. Harry had, for the most part, resigned himself to it. But however much his feelings might not be returned, Harry had no illusions about his own. Draco was the one.

Anything, Harry prayed. I’ll give anything. Just give him back to me.

Early the following morning, not long after Madam Pomfrey had gone to rest and left Hermione to watch things, Harry began to drift off in his chair. He woke briefly when Ron coaxed him back into his own bed, and was awakened not long after by a loud cry. He rocketed upright, pulse pounding, and saw that despite the thick coat of anticonvulsant spells, Draco was thrashing madly.

*

**Nearly done now. You’re sure this is the way you want to play it?**

_Harry. Please._

**If you insist, little one.**

_Hold on._

*

Malfoy’s second lecture—three days later—went much the same as the first. Harry watched balefully from the group of students and Malfoy spoke with assured competence. Even Harry had to admit that Malfoy knew his stuff, although he supposed someone didn’t attain the rank of Master with anything less than excellence.

Once more, Harry lingered after, but this time he remained in his seat, watching the blond man pack up. He propped a foot up on the back of the chair in front of him, and let his heel bounce as he waited. This was a technique of intimidation that was incredibly low-effort, and he’d used it to great effect in the past on missions. Being watched by a subtly antagonistic authority made most people cringe if you just waited long enough.

Malfoy ignored him, and moved without haste or comment. But as he passed by, Harry caught a whiff of Malfoy’s cologne. Expensive stuff, no doubt, but what really stood out was that it violated everything Harry had already come to expect about Malfoy’s new image. His suits, manner, haircut, and expertise were all professionalism at its best. All business.

His cologne was pure, unadulterated sex. Raw and vicious. The scent went straight to Harry’s cock, and for a split second, all he wanted was to spring up from his chair and shove Malfoy against the wall.

Then he was gone, and Harry got busy rationalizing.

He did not want to fuck Malfoy, he told himself. What he wanted was what the cologne stood for, not what it offered. It was an incongruent detail; it was a crack in the foundation. Proof that the rest of it was a façade. Harry wanted the secrets underneath. He wanted to know that Malfoy wasn’t up to his old tricks, just with a far more effective disguise.

He did not want to fuck Malfoy.

Really, he didn’t.

*

The thrashing was violent. Draco nearly threw himself out of the bed, and Harry caught a senseless backhand in the face trying to hold him down. He barely noticed; he was far too distracted by the quiet, pain-wracked cries spilling from Draco’s mouth as he writhed.

“Draco,” Harry managed. “It’s all right. It’ll be all right. Breathe, love. Just keep breathing.”

Madam Pomfrey and Hermione were just standing there, watching with identical drawn expressions, and Harry barked, “Fucking do something!”

“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice trembling. “He’s reached magical saturation. Anything else we cast or give him will just damage his system further. There’s nothing we can do.”

The thrashing went abruptly still and became an arch as Draco’s spine lifted from the mattress in an obscene angle. He collapsed back from the spasm but immediately began to contort again, his arms limp at his sides, until only head and hands and lower legs touched the bed. He collapsed and began to lift once more. This time the arch was so severe that several vertebrae popped, and all of this was accompanied by a terrible, wheezing cry of agony.

Harry stumbled back, hands pressed to his mouth, tears streaming. “Oh, God, Hermione, fix this, please, please, fix it. Stop it. Please.”

She was crying too, hands wringing at her waist. Ron caught him, a strong presence at his back, held him close.

The mad arching abruptly stopped. Draco’s breath hissed out in a long, rattling sigh.

For a moment, Harry thought it was done, thought it was all over.

He tossed Ron aside as if he weighed nothing and launched himself to Draco’s side. He touched warm skin with trembling fingers, moved swiftly down to let the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest move beneath his palm.

“Draco,” he whispered. “Draco. I love you. Hold on. Hold on.”

For long, aching minutes, they waited, wondering if the life in front of them was fading. But Draco’s breathing evened. Within twenty minutes, his temperature began to fall, and his lips lost the blue tinge.

Harry sank into his chair and shook like a man with palsy. Hermione and Madam Pomfrey frowned worriedly and refused to talk about what the broken fever might mean, but as neither the convulsions nor the terrible arching came back, Harry preferred to imagine that it might be a suggestion of recurring health.

Harry’s body gave out from fatigue not long after; he woke to heady dusk in the adjacent bed with a vague memory of tunnel vision and Ron catching him before he hit the floor. He sat up and took in Ron’s face—lined and tired, but somehow lighter than it had been in days. A rustle of fabric sounded, and then Hermione stood beside him, hands clenched at her waist.

“What?” Harry asked, his voice a croak.

Hermione reported, with apprehensive awe in her voice, that Draco’s kidney function and liver function were somehow normal.

“That’s…what? Normal?” Harry asked. He glanced over, saw Draco as still and quiet as ever, and struggled to make sense of it.

“It’s a good sign,” Hermione said. Her mouth worked once. “We have no idea what’s changed, Harry. I don’t know if we can trust this or if it’s a temporary improvement, but it is a good sign. I really thought…but it’s a good sign.”

As night thickened and midnight approached, Draco’s cardiac enzymes stabilized. Less than an hour later, the remaining fluid in his lungs responded to a small spell.

Harry sat in his chair, gripped Draco’s hand, and watched as the gray cheeks became merely pale, and then, in the dim light of his _Lumos,_ even began to flush with health. Draco shifted, letting out a soft sigh, but these were the movements and sounds of normal, gentle sleep rather than seizure and illness.

Harry began to hope. Truly hope.

Draco would come back to him.

*

**Mine.**

*

Twenty minutes after dawn, Draco opened his eyes.

 


	2. Coming Up Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a dubious consent warning for this chapter only, folks. I'm of the opinion that it's fairly mild, but if you've read my other stuff, you know that's probably pretty relative. Read with your own mental health in mind ;D

Malfoy’s behavior during the last session of the first week of the potions seminar remained utterly respectable, which made Harry all the more suspicious. It seemed obvious to him that Malfoy’s new persona was an act, driven by some nefarious purpose or other, and he left the lecture with a grim determination to investigate. He didn’t intend to open up any formal inquiries. No, he simply decided it was time to keep a closer eye, and as long as he didn’t break any regulations, there could be nothing wrong with that.

Thoughts about where to begin and what Malfoy might be involved in clouded his mind for the rest of the day—as he caught lunch with Ron and Dean, as he responded in a back-up capacity to a domestic call in Cokeworth, and as he filed the paperwork about it. Malfoy was never far from his thoughts.

And while he might have hesitated when he waved Ron off for the day, in the end, he decided not to say anything about his concerns.

The whole situation reminded Harry a bit of sixth year. He had sworn up and down that Malfoy was up to something but had been met with disbelief and doubt on all sides. Besides being frustrating, it had been downright ineffectual. From that experience he’d learned the importance of having evidence before stating a claim, and he hadn’t forgotten it since, particularly now that he was an Auror. And currently, Harry’s ideas were amorphous at best. It would do him no good to offer Ron guesses about Malfoy’s intentions—if he was wrong at this stage, it would only harm his chances of convincing Ron later when he got it right. Until he had something real, he’d keep his mouth shut and trust his gut, which swore up and down that he needed to be paying attention to Malfoy.

Harry spent most of Saturday doing chores and running errands before spending Saturday evening with Andromeda and Teddy. His godson was six now, and every bit Tonks’s child. He had her feistiness and her light, determined spirit, and Merlin knew he had her lack of grace. Harry had given up on the idea of a dinner that didn’t include something getting dropped or spilled. Lupin’s influence on the boy was more subtle—it was in the curve of his cheek and his gentle affection with people he trusted. Sitting on the sofa with Teddy half-asleep in his lap was a melancholy experience, a sort of quiet happiness that left Harry heavy with memory.

On Sunday he did laundry, then met up with Ron and Hermione for the weekly Weasley dinner. Hermione, par for the course these days, was half-dead with exhaustion from sixteen-hour training shifts at St. Mungo’s, but she woke up a bit when they headed outside to work off some of the meal with a walk. Dusk touched the rough fields around the Burrow, and the early October chill had Harry wishing for a cloak to go over his jumper.

“Ron tells me Malfoy’s teaching your lecture. How’s that been?” Hermione asked Harry.

He hesitated. “Fine so far.”

“No bloodshed?”

“There’s still time.”

“I hope you’ll be able to get along,” she said earnestly. “He’s grown up quite a bit.”

Harry paused. “You say that like you know.”

“The Magical Bugs department has him listed as a back-up supplier for outbreaks,” she said casually. Then, after a moment of clear deliberation, she added, “I’ve seen him a few times.”

“Oh?” Harry glanced at Ron, who made an annoyed face, proving that he hadn’t known either. “How’s that gone?”

She hesitated. “Very well, actually. He apologized.”

Harry blinked. “He _apologized?”_

“Yes. For all the times he called me a Mudblood and acted a prat during school. He bought me a cuppa in the tearoom, apologized very genuinely, and has never failed to ask after my health whenever I’ve seen him since.”

“And you just believed him, did you, _Hermione_?” Ron asked, sounding outraged.

“Yes, _Ron,_ I did.”

“Smooth bastard, isn’t he?” Ron asked Harry, his irritation making him the very opposite of smooth; he nearly tripped over a stone because he was watching Hermione and Harry instead of looking where he was going.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not remotely, actually. He seemed very nervous. Almost like he expected me to throw it in his face. I thought he was going to draw blood, the way he was digging his nails into his palms.”

“I would’ve thrown it in his face,” Ron asserted.

“I suppose that explains why I got the apology and you didn’t,” she replied crossly.

Harry stepped over a fallen branch, studying the ground with a creased brow. “How much does he contribute during outbreaks, do you know?”

Hermione frowned. “To the department? Not much, for the most part; it’s not like he’s got a large operation, does he? But he’s got a good reputation. He’s got a talent for producing good-quality potions on quick notice. Remember that outbreak of spattergroit a year back where all the children got sick? He had sixty-five potent doses of Burning Bitterroot Balm ready in less than 24 hours—that’s impressive work. They don’t need him often, but he’s come through whenever they call.”

“Hmm,” Harry said.

“He has a good reputation,” Hermione repeated, looking at Harry closely. “Harry, tell me you’re not going to get all weird about him again.”

“I’m not getting weird,” Harry said defensively. “I’m just thinking.”

Hermione clearly didn’t believe him, and he flinched a little when she opened her mouth, but Ron’s temper saved him.

“And why didn’t you say you’d seen Malfoy?” he asked his girlfriend hotly.

She sighed. “Because I knew how you’d react, and there seemed no point to this whole argument, not when he was perfectly pleasant.”

“Oh, yes, with the apologies and the politeness and the cuppa.”

“That’s what perfectly pleasant means, Ronald.”

Harry tuned out their bickering and focused instead on the information Hermione had supplied. Malfoy had access to the Ministry now that he was teaching the lecture three times a week, which meant he was trusted enough that his name wouldn’t be on any watch lists.

Interesting.

That meant he had access to a whole host of dangerous and poisonous ingredients.

Also interesting.

He contributed potions to St. Mungo’s during outbreaks.

Not just interesting. Frightening.

On Monday, Harry decided to take action.

He started by getting Trainee Angelica Finnegan to tail Malfoy in the evenings and on the weekends. She was one of Seamus Finnegan’s countless young cousins, and Harry had been a reference on her application to the Auror program, so she’d agreed to give him a hand as a thank you. He gave her strict instructions not to put herself at any risk. Then, in an afterthought that proved he had matured somewhat over the years, he also told her not to trespass or break any laws in the process.

While Angie tracked Malfoy’s movements, Harry put together a series of theories that rapidly fell apart in his hands.

In case Malfoy was undermining the preparation of the Aurors in the field, Harry spent most of Monday night exhaustively double-checking every single detail that Malfoy had given them during that day’s lecture.

He didn’t find a single flaw.

Harry spent Tuesday checking with nearby ingredient supply houses, looking for anything that might point to smuggling or illegal brewing. He found nothing locally, so he spread his mantle wider, looking into some pretty obscure mail-order businesses and more than a few shops that would’ve been right at home in Knockturn Alley. But at no point did Harry get even an inkling that Malfoy was experimenting with dangerous or dark potions. The man used controlled substances, true, but then there wasn’t a professional brewer alive who didn’t, not if he or she wanted to remain in the field.

On Wednesday morning, he looked into the potions Malfoy had supplied to St. Mungo’s, albeit _very_ discreetly. He might not think much of Malfoy’s attempts to live clean, but Harry had no intention of negatively influencing the man’s business, not when he didn’t have any proof of wrongdoing. But there wasn’t a single record of a flawed or ineffectual potion in the lot.

He walked into lecture on Wednesday extremely frustrated; so far he’d lost two days to this investigation and had nothing to show for it. Despite this, he stayed determined. Whatever it was that Malfoy was up to, Harry would find out. He hadn’t pushed hard enough last time, and Malfoy’s actions had led to Death Eaters in Hogwarts and Snape killing Dumbledore. This time, Harry promised himself, he would get it right.

*

When Draco opened his eyes for the first time since the accident, Harry could not help the soft cry that burst from his lips. It brought Hermione, Ron, and Madam Pomfrey running, and in seconds, they were all grouped around the still figure in the bed.

For several long seconds, Harry held his breath. There had been moments in the last few days when he’d thought he would never see those eyes open again, and even now, his fear had his heart galloping in his chest. Too much had been stolen from him over the years. He did not trust this supposed recovery—not yet. So he took a moment now to memorize Draco’s eyes fully, just in case: the arch of the pale brows, the thick lashes, the faintly lavender tinge to the delicate surrounding skin, the perfect gray irises without a hint of blue or green. As lovely as ever.

“Draco?” Harry asked, throat tight. “Can you hear me?”

Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice, as he swallowed. He coughed, still staring directly upward. Hermione waved her wand over his torso, then murmured something to Madam Pomfrey that Harry didn’t catch.

“Draco?” Harry repeated, and this time, the gray gaze flickered. Draco blinked, then surveyed the room around him.

“Yes,” he said finally, his mouth moving as if the word tasted strange to him. “Yes, I can hear you.”

Harry dropped his head to the mattress, unwilling to let Draco see him cry. He struggled with the tears while Ron let out a whoop and Hermione shushed him and Madam Pomfrey asked gentle questions about how Draco felt, and the whole time all Harry could think was _thank you._

*

On that Wednesday, Malfoy announced that they would begin incorporating brewing exercises into their sessions.

The conference tables and chairs were all transfigured into raised islands and stools, and the Aurors were set to work in assigned pairs. Malfoy had carefully paired Harry not with Ron, but with a far older Auror named Gertrude Simmons. A grizzled, hairy woman with a wide mouth, narrow, beady eyes, and a tough, argumentative mind, she was not unlike a female Mad Eye Moody, Harry had sometimes thought. He liked her, and although they’d only ever been on training missions together, he’d nonetheless been impressed with the clarity of her thinking and her strong skills in the field. It wouldn’t be a hardship working with her a couple hours a few times a week.

In arranging this pairing, Malfoy had demonstrated that his classroom management skills were solid beneath his business-like exterior. Simmons did not give two shits that Harry was The Chosen One. It was one of the things he liked best about her. She also had no patience or verbal filter to speak of and wouldn’t shy away from putting him in his place if he didn’t hold up his side of the stuff.

Still, it was close enough to the old days in Snape’s classroom that Harry felt a little disappointed that he would not be getting to spend the next forty minutes lambasting Malfoy and debating conspiracy theories with his best mate.

Malfoy had been a lot of things in his life but he’d never been stupid.

Upon getting everyone matched up and working on the day’s task, Malfoy began circling the room to visit each worktable, giving additional directions, offering suggestions, and answering questions. The git was dressed yet again in a slim-fitting suit, although this one was entirely black—waistcoat, tie, and all, and his pale skin and hair nearly glowed in contrast. Harry found himself watching Malfoy—suspiciously, of course—even while he set up a cauldron and began unpacking supplies.

They were on the second step by the time Malfoy made his way to their table.

“Aurors Simmons and Potter. How are we proceeding?”

“Grand,” Simmons said jovially. “We’ve got the base prepared.”

“If you’ll allow me.” Malfoy leaned in slightly, perusing the sheen on the surface. As he did so, Harry accidentally got a whiff of his cologne; the same one as before, and it had the same effect on Harry: his cock twitched. Malfoy, thankfully, was oblivious.

“Satisfactory work,” he was saying. “Any questions so far?”

“Not me,” Simmons said. “Harry?”

Harry realized they were looking at him and he forced himself to focus on Malfoy’s words instead of the fact that he smelled like a very expensive prostitute.

“Nothing,” Harry said a bit too sharply, and he took a step back, well out of cologne-scenting range.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Malfoy, about your Mastery advisor,” Simmons said, giving Harry a brief, thoughtful look. “You studied under Marjorie Menot, did you not?”

“I did.”

“A wise woman. For a Hufflepuff.”

The very corners of Malfoy’s lips twitched the slightest bit, although the rest of his face remained as bland as ever. “Do you denigrate your own house so, Auror Simmons?”

Those beady eyes twinkled. “And how do you know that was my house?”

“I’m not without my sources.”

No, Harry thought, he wouldn’t be.

“One of my colleagues opened their fat mouth?”

Malfoy merely returned her gaze steadily.

Simmons huffed, although her good humor remained. “And no, I don’t think little of my house, although I do have a realistic view of the average level of intelligence there.”

“That comment seems to imply you find it wanting.”

“My housemates are wonders of decency, Mr. Malfoy—every last one of them composed of generosity, selflessness and hard work. Do those sound like the traits of smart people?”

Malfoy grinned, and the change in his face was startling; the tight jaw and reserved professionalism were replaced with sly humor and pure enjoyment. Harry stopped for a moment and stared, his heart beginning to pound. Except for the distinct lack of cruelty in the expression, Harry could almost have been looking at the bigoted boy he’d once known. _This_ was Malfoy, this bright, canny creature, not the stiff automaton he’d been acting like so far, but even as Harry watched, the grin vanished. He couldn’t help frowning. For some reason, Malfoy’s reversion to dull propriety bothered him.

“I’m not one to judge,” Malfoy said quietly.

“Bullfrogs,” Simmons snapped happily. “You’re a Slytherin. That’s all you little buggers do.”

After a tiny hesitation, Malfoy changed the subject. “Are you friends with Master Menot then?”

“She’s my sister-in-law. When I mentioned you were teaching this class, she said nice things about you.”

Harry only realized he was still staring at Malfoy when Simmons kicked him discreetly under the table. With a small cough, he dropped his eyes to the table, hoping Malfoy hadn’t noticed. With an air of disinterest, he collected a jar of beetle eyes. When he had the right amount, he dumped the lot in a mortar and took up a pestle.

“We did get along rather well,” Malfoy was saying. “Would you be so kind as to pass along my greetings? I would appreciate it. She’s a singularly kind person.”

“I could do that,” Simmons said.

Malfoy finally spared a glance at Harry. “Auror Potter, you’re grinding beetle’s eyes, not shells. Try a softer hand.”

Harry looked up, directly into shuttered gray eyes. Malfoy’s voice and expression were empty of smugness or superiority. Instead, there was only polite disinterest. Strangely, this lack of engagement aggravated Harry.

Apparently agreeing with Malfoy’s appraisal, Simmons shoved at his hand, clucking at him. “Merlin, boy, it’s like the beetles have done you wrong! Lighten up your grip. I thought you were a student of Severus Snape’s!”

At this, Harry expected Malfoy to outright mock him, but again, the reaction he got was muted to the point of blandness. Malfoy simply knocked his loose fist softly against the island in a companionably dismissive gesture.

“Let me know if there’s anything else either of you need. And thank you, Auror Simmons, for your help.”

“No problem, Mr. Malfoy.”

Malfoy headed off, pausing to observe at the next table. Harry’s narrowed gaze followed him, clinging like socks to a shirt after a round in the dryer, completely flummoxed. Malfoy moved gracefully, his conversations low-key and muted, his every action underplayed. If not for the fact that the man was utterly gorgeous and smelled like sin, he might’ve faded into the background entirely.

And, Harry noticed with a frown, Malfoy took a deep breath and subtly squared his shoulders just before approaching Ron’s table.

Something was definitely up.

Simmons exhaled theatrically. “Would you stop mooning over Malfoy’s arse already and hand me the damn Tibbergeet feathers, please, Auror Potter, before I die of effing old age? Thank you kindly.”

Harry flushed bright red and handed the feathers over. “I wasn’t mooning at his arse,” he snapped in a low voice.

She grinned at him as she peeled downy barbs from the quill. “No? Huh. They must do that differently in your generation then. I am old, it’s true, and my vision isn’t what it used to be, but where I come from, we call that look on your face the ‘I’d like to get some of that’ expression.”

Harry snorted, amused despite his best efforts not to be. “You do not.”

She just nodded knowingly and began spooning oil through a strainer, which gave him the opportunity to go back to watching Malfoy. Watching. Not mooning. If he happened to notice that the curve of Malfoy’s arse was surprisingly lush, well, that was just because Simmons had brought it to his attention.

“Staring won’t get his clothes off,” Simmons crooned, one grizzled eyebrow lifted mockingly.

“I’m not staring,” Harry insisted, his cheeks positively on fire with embarrassment, irritation flooding his system. What ridiculousness to think he might actually want Malfoy. The bastard had a supremely dangerous cologne and an excellent arse, and that was it. He took up the pestle once more just to distract himself. “I’m not!”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not gonna be grinding the Goosemander Eggs based on that technique, you near-sighted twit.” She sighed. “Honestly, boy, have you no skill in potions? Lighten up your damn grip.”

*

 _Why does he look like that?_ Draco thought, staring up from his hospital bed. Harry’s face was gray and open-mouthed, his expression frantic, his hand on Draco’s tight as a vise. _Why does he have the look he always gets before he tries to pretend he isn’t crying? Why can’t I raise my arm to touch him?_

Harry spoke, and the words were confusing. He couldn’t quite understand at first. Draco had been so long in the darkness, and the pressure was so forceful still, that he’d nearly forgotten things like light and breathing and body and world. He hadn’t forgotten Harry, he never could, but everything concrete had become distant, somehow cardboard, like his life were a play on a stage with a hand-built set. Everything was tangible enough to let him suspend disbelief, but that didn’t make it real.

He tried to say Harry’s name, as that was all that came to him, but different words came out. “Yes,” his mouth said, “Yes, I can hear you.”

Harry pressed his face against him and Draco knew he was crying; Harry always hid his face when he cried.

 _I didn’t say that_ , Draco thought.

Then the other voice came, the one that had entered his mind like wind, the one that had accompanied the pressure that still kept Draco small and helpless. It thought things and Draco heard them, deep in a place where he had no ears. It thought **I said it, with my mouth, to my Harry.**

 _My Harry,_ Draco thought, and panic began to spill into him. _What are you? How are you doing this? You can’t stay here. This is my body! Mine!_

Although Draco had no control over them, he felt his lips begin to curve into a sharp-edged smile and the Creature’s whispered thought came oily and sneering in his mind. **Not anymore.**

*

On the off chance that Malfoy’s underhanded dealings were so subtle that it would take an expert to recognize it, Harry spent the rest of Wednesday and much of Thursday informally visiting several well-known names in the Potions field. He was reserved with his questions despite his urge to just shake everyone he came across and demand to know Malfoy’s secrets. Discretion had never been one of his strengths, but in this case it was necessary. Everyone he interviewed knew exactly who he was, and unless he wanted word going around that he was running an unauthorized investigation into Draco Malfoy, he had to play it close to the vest.

It wasn’t exactly that he would get in trouble. Benton Marrow, his immediate supervisor and the head of the Auror Office, ran a fairly open-minded department. He liked creative, flexible problem solving. He’d said more than once that if you hired the best, you didn’t have to baby-sit, and that meant that they got a lot of freedom if they wanted to chase a gut instinct. That did not mean, however, that Marrow didn’t believe in oversight. You only earned that freedom by being the best. If you weren’t the best, you didn’t have a place in the Office at all.

In fact, Harry had only to list his past interactions with Malfoy and then mention that he had a bad feeling about the whole thing, and Marrow would likely support everything he’d done so far.

But for some reason (which he didn’t dare look at too closely), Harry couldn’t bring himself to tell anyone what he was doing.

Not even Ron.

So as he made his way through Malfoy’s circle of colleagues, he kept his questions subtle and his visits strictly informal. Unfortunately, he got nothing useful. Malfoy’s reputation among his peers was sterling. In fact, upon hearing his name, one of the Masters he’d trained with, a woman named Carella Carletta, (who had reminded Harry strongly of Luna Lovegood during his appointment) had literally started to sing Malfoy’s praises, which had left Harry annoyed and confused for several hours afterwards.

By Friday morning, Harry had to admit that Malfoy was either full of clean living or he’d gotten much better at hiding his misdeeds. Right now, with absolutely nothing to go on, Harry thought the former was more likely. Still, he couldn’t kick the feeling that _something_ was up with Malfoy. At a loss, he decided it was time to call in Angie Finnegan, the trainee he’d set to follow Malfoy for the past week.

Harry had been friends with the blue-eyed brunette ever since ‘Career Counseling’ week during her sixth year at Hogwarts, when Headmistress McGonagall had suggested she write to Harry about her ambitions to be an Auror. After a year and a half of occasional letters they’d become fairly close, and he’d had no qualms about being a reference when it came time for her to apply to the Ministry. Now she fell gracefully into the chair across from his desk.

“Cousin Harry,” she said in greeting, an appellation she’d given to him in the very first letter she’d written to him, in the hopes that he would not immediately toss it aside unread when he didn’t recognize her name. A slick move, he’d had to admit, and when he’d called her on the manipulation, she’d protested that she was only referring to the fact that Harry was a friend of Seamus’s, which practically made them family by any Irish standard. Then she’d grinned.

Even now he wasn’t quite sure if she’d been playing him. But then, that was what you got when you wrangled with Slytherins.

“Not-my-cousin Angelica,” he said with a smile, giving her the same reply he always did. “What can you tell me?”

“The man has no life,” she said bluntly, handing over some parchment detailing Malfoy’s activities.

“The man has no life that we can confirm,” Harry corrected in his formal I-Work-For-The-Ministry voice, looking down at her writing. The voice went away. “Cripes, Ang, you really do have the worst handwriting ever. How did I forget that?”

“Do not,” she said. “And I _have_ confirmed it. I’ve been following him for a week now, and as much fun as it has been sitting and staring for hours straight while he reads or gardens, I think I’m leaving off now. Favor paid.”

“Your handwriting is worse than _mine_. I must’ve blocked the traumatic memory from my mind in self-defense,” Harry replied. Then, “Wait. He _gardens_?”

“First of all, that was wickedly uncalled for. No one has handwriting worse than yours. Second, his yards and gardens would make my mother weep. They’re gorgeous. He’s out there every morning and evening to water and fiddle, and on the weekends he spends hours weeding and pruning and whatever the hell else people do when they garden.”

“What does he do besides that?” Harry asked, eager to put aside the image of Malfoy cutting deadheads while wearing Wellies, a straw hat, and overalls that popped into his mind. The picture was surprisingly charming, and he did not like it at all.

“The man’s schedule is so regimented he’d put the military to shame. First, he works out for exactly forty-five minutes every morning. He showers. He reads while he eats breakfast. Then he works—he does his own brewing out of his basement, where, from what I can see through his window, he has a pretty sweet setup. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he schools you and your lot on how to be upright Auror types, then immediately goes home and cleans his house for precisely one hour. He gets up and goes to bed at the same time every day. He doesn’t go places. He doesn’t do things. Except to come here to teach or to get potions supplies, he barely leaves the house. He didn’t visit a single friend or family member the entire time I watched him, and no one came to visit him, which is kind of sad, actually.”

“That can’t be right,” Harry muttered, frustrated.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Angie said.

“Why?”

She paused a moment. “Are we not vetting a potential boyfriend?”

“No!”

“So you’re not trying to see if he’ll out you once you’ve shagged him?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “I don’t want to shag him. And how did you know I’m gay?”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m a trainee, not an idiot.”

“He’s up to something,” Harry insisted.

“Clearly, he isn’t.” She stood up, looking a little put out. “Have I seriously been doing surveillance on someone for legitimate Ministry purposes this whole time? Because you never gave me paperwork. I don’t want to get in trouble or anything. I only agreed to do this so you could finally get shagged, Cousin Harry.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “That went to an uncomfortable place. First, it’s not legitimate surveillance, and the legality is sort of gray, as you haven’t done anything illegal, so you don’t need to worry. Second, if anyone gives you lip—which they won’t—send them to me. Third, I do not need to get shagged. Fourth, don’t talk about me getting shagged. Under any circumstances. Please.”

“If this isn’t a legitimate mission—”

“It isn’t,” Harry repeated.

“And he’s not a potential boyfriend—”

“Definitely not.”

“Then why are we following him?”

“Because…I just…I mean…because…there’s a thing….it’s Malfoy, that’s all. It’s Malfoy.”

She studied him for a long minute. “You want to shag him.”

“No, I don’t,” Harry snapped. He picked up the dish of candy that Hermione had given him several years back. “Put something in your face so your mouth will stay closed, will you? He’s just crafty. He’s up to something and he’s crafty.”

“Malfoy’s all right,” Angelica said dismissively, rooting through the candy.

“And you know this how?”

“He’s been teaching the Potions unit of the Dangerous Substances Course for three years now,” she said. “I just took his class a couple months back. We talked sometimes after. At the time I thought maybe he was lonely. He’s…oh, caramel!” She unwrapped the candy and popped it in her mouth.

Harry rolled his eyes. “And you liked him?”

“Actually, yeah. He’s a nice guy and he knows his stuff. The lonely thing makes more sense now, but it doesn’t hurt that he’s fucking gorgeous and very definitely gay. I think you should shag him.”

“Merlin,” Harry muttered. “I don’t want to shag him. I can get my own dates, Ang.”

She studied him again, doubtfully this time. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I can’t really see you having much game, Cousin Harry. No offense. You don’t really seem that comfortable with the basics, you know.”

“What do you know about the basics?” Harry asked, perplexed and offended at the same time. “I’ve got the basics covered.”

“You outsourced your stalking,” she pointed out. “I figured you must not be very good at it, because that’s the sort of thing that most people prefer to do for themselves.”

“I’m very good at stalking,” Harry argued. “The last time I stalked Malfoy he barely even knew.”

“This isn’t even the first time? Are you really sticking with the argument that you _don’t_ want to shag him?”

Harry sighed and got up, coming around to her side of the desk and pointing towards the door. “Thank you very much for your help, Angelica. I will see you on Wednesday at Seamus and Dean’s for fantasy Quidditch. Now please get the hell out of my office.”

“Your caramels are really old,” she said, getting to her feet and letting him herd her to the exit. “I think I cracked a tooth.”

“Karma,” he said, and shut the door in her face. When he was back at his desk he slumped into his chair and considered Angie’s parchment with the handwriting that was far worse than his own. His stomach felt jumpy and unsettled, and he put this down to uncertainty about where to investigate next, not to the ridiculous claims that Angie was making about stalking and shagging.

It wasn’t just that Malfoy didn’t appear to be up to no good. Malfoy didn’t appear to be up to _anything_.

*

They helped Draco sit up against a wealth of pillows at his request, despite the grooves of weariness around his mouth and between his eyebrows. Madam Pomfrey quizzed him on how he was feeling and Harry sat in the chair he’d begun to think he’d begun to think of as a second home and listened.

No, Draco didn’t feel ill. No, he wasn’t in pain. No, he did not remember the fall.

Harry traced his fingers over the fine, crisp hair on Draco’s forearm and marveled at the speed with which fate could turn. Not twelve hours ago, Draco had been on the edge of death. Now he was not only breathing, he was sitting up and talking. Granted, the words came haltingly and lacked complexity, but Harry couldn’t be anything but grateful. The recovery was nothing short of miraculous. He would not second guess it or be so foolish as to want more.

Hermione and Ron arranged to have an early lunch with them. They chatted lightly while Draco fought to stay awake. He gave a soft sigh at one point, a sound of such enduring little-boy cuteness that Harry broke off mid-sentence and pressed his lips against Draco’s forehead.

“I’m so happy,” he whispered. “I was so scared, Draco.”

“I’m fine, Harry,” Draco replied.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went still. Draco did not seem to notice and turned his head, burrowing into the pillow a bit and apparently going to sleep. Hermione and Ron quietly collected their lunch things, and when Harry was sure that Draco was asleep, they stepped into the hallway to return their dishes. They made it all the way to the kitchens and had started back before anyone brought it up.

“Is that a new thing between you?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Harry said, folding his hands together at his waist to keep himself from wringing them.

“He doesn’t call you that sometimes when you’re, ah, you know, intimate?” Ron asked, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Maybe it just slipped out.”

“He’s never called me Harry in all the time I’ve known him,” Harry said flatly. “Even when we’re fucking, he calls me Potter. At least, I assume that’s what you were getting at?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, turning red and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“It could be nothing,” Hermione said reasonably. “He’s tired, and it probably doesn’t mean a single thing.”

“A habit of a lifetime suddenly changing?” Harry asked. “That’s nothing?”

“It could be,” Hermione said with a reassuring smile. “Try to relax, Harry. Draco’s getting better. Let’s not waste a good worry. Knowing your life, you’re probably going to need it later.”

*

 **That’s not what you call him, is it?** The creature in Draco’s mind thought as it turned its head and pretended to go to sleep. It kept one ear open for the stilted movements of Harry and his friends; they’d definitely caught the slip up. **You think of him as Harry but you don’t call him that.**

_Nope._

**Well? What is it then?**

_No way,_ Draco thought tightly, _I have no intention of helping you pretend to be me. He’ll figure you out in a finger-snap and then he’ll start working on a way to get you out of my body and into a bonfire._

**Oh, I think you’ll give me all the aid I could ask for.**

_That’s a bit presumptuous,_ Draco responded silently, but he couldn’t help the thread of nervousness that tinged his mind at the silky surety in the creature’s thought.

**Not really. After all, you seem to care a great deal about your Harry. It would truly be sad if something were to happen to him.**

Draco’s thoughts stuttered hard. While the hospital wing bustled around him and Madam Pomfrey spoke with a student behind a curtain, Draco struggled to understand exactly what the creature inside of him meant, and then it took him several minutes to debate whether or not it would actually do what it claimed.

_You wouldn’t._

**Shall we find out? Let’s consider our options here, little one. There are a great array of potions in a hospital ward. Some of them are quite strong, I’d imagine. They affect all sorts of things…the lungs, the heart, the brain.**

_You’re stuck in this bed!_

**I’m weak right now, that’s true, but I’m going to get stronger. And besides, how much strength does it really take to tip a vial of potion into someone’s tea?** As if to demonstrate that the strength it did have was more than adequate, the creature sat up and used one arm to plump the pillows against which Draco's body rested.

_Don’t. Don’t you dare touch him._

**I rather think it would be easy. I’d get away with it, too. No one would ever suspect his ill lover.**

_I won’t let you hurt him._ Draco thought wildly, panic bursting through him.

**It’s not like you can stop me. So perhaps it’s time to hear what you really do call him.**

Draco wrestled with it for a long minute more, then thought, _Potter. I call him Potter._

**Good boy.**

*****

By the beginning of the third week of lecture, Harry didn’t know what to think.

He’d found nothing.

And yet, everything in him said that there was something wrong with Malfoy.

Malfoy routinely opened the day’s lecture with a thorough introduction of the day’s potions, outlined their dangers and formulas, and then assigned each pair of Aurors one to brew. When those were finished and set aside, Malfoy would pass out the ones they’d made the session before, mixing them up so that each pair received a mysterious vial filled with a potion that they were expected to identify and present to the rest of the group, including information about the antidote, possible interactions with other substances, and requirements for safe transportation. Sometimes this led to class-wide discussions of how best to deal with potions that were brewed incorrectly and were therefore unstable; the Aurors had to be able to eliminate the risks without rendering the evidence unusable.

It was in these discussions that Malfoy’s true strengths as a teacher lay. You could always trust a Slytherin to manipulate conversation well, but it was clear that even by snake standards Malfoy was talented. He kept things moving forward and ensured that everyone got a chance to offer an opinion. When tempers got heated, he defused things with a no-nonsense voice and deft questions to provoke new topics. He knew enough to let the Aurors debate the legal ramifications involved, but was quick to interject when a suggestion was dangerous.

All in all, Harry’s growing well of admiration for Malfoy’s competence and talent was second only to his growing inability to stop looking at the bastard.

Simmons continued to mock Harry for his preoccupation, although she was decent enough to keep it just between the two of them. In a way, she did him a favor. By pointing out all the times Harry’s eyes strayed to Malfoy’s arse, it became impossible for Harry to pretend that he didn’t find Malfoy attractive. Not that it was unexpected. The man was, frankly, beautiful. His features were lean and masculine and aristocratic, and his body, always showed off to its best advantage by the ridiculously well-cut suits he wore, was slender and toned from all those morning workouts.

But none of that helped him make up his mind about Malfoy’s odd behavior.

After Monday’s session, Malfoy asked Harry to stay behind. Ron waved good-bye with raised eyebrows, and Simmons cackled before elbowing Harry in the ribs hard enough to leave a bruise.

“That’s progress, innit?” she barked. “Watch your mouth and you might get to find out what he wears under those neat little suits, Potter.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry muttered.

“That’s the idea,” she agreed, and left.

The room emptied swiftly with much scraping of stools and conversation, and soon it was just Harry and Malfoy left. Harry remained at his worktable, watching with a great deal of interest as Malfoy neatly collected his belongings with the single-minded determination of a man resolutely not acknowledging an elephant in the room. His fingers were a little clumsy on his quills and parchment, Harry noticed, and he looked closely at the slight tightness of Malfoy’s lips. When he’d closed his briefcase, Malfoy stood still and quiet, breathing deeply and staring into space.

There were a dozen questions flitting through Harry’s mind, all of them keyed to finding out just what the hell was going on with the man standing fifteen feet away from him, each of them ranging from hostile in tone to merely curious. But in that moment, watching Malfoy shift his weight and avoid eye contact, Harry couldn’t seem to make himself care about any of them.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked finally.

Malfoy spoke without facing him. “I’ve learned something about Gryffindors in the last few years. Your lot responds best to honesty and directness.”

Harry’s brow knitted. “Okay,” he said slowly.

“So in the interest of easing your mind, I’d like to say, out loud and honestly, that I’m not up to anything, Potter. I have no grand designs on evil or dangerous plots in the works. I merely want to do my job, and do it well. I would appreciate it if you could at least…” he broke off and took a deep breath. Harry watched him closely; Malfoy’s words had begun to run together more quickly as he spoke, and it became painfully obvious now that he was extremely anxious.

“Malfoy,” Harry began, but he was abruptly cut off.

“If you could please at least try to keep your investigation from becoming common knowledge among my colleagues. I’m…I have no doubt that you don’t believe me, but—”

“Malfoy,” Harry interrupted quietly. “What’s going on with you?”

Gray eyes snapped to his, and Harry was taken aback by the sheer level of disquiet in them. “Nothing,” he said shortly, then gave a small, huffing breath. It seemed to take considerable effort for him to speak evenly when he continued. “That’s my whole point. Nothing is going on.”

“This isn’t nothing,” Harry said, gesturing in a vague all-of-Malfoy’s-body sort of way. He rose from his stool and skirted between islands to approach the front of the conference room. Malfoy watched him warily, his body visibly tensing when Harry circled the professor’s table to halt beside him. “You seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted, and he looked pointedly at the spot where Malfoy’s hands had tightened into fists where they rested on the podium. Malfoy slowly stretched his fingers out and laid them flat. He said again, slowly, “I’m not. It’s only that your inquiries have been noticed by others, and in addition to reflecting badly on me professionally, it’s…I know you hate me. That’s fine, that’s understandable, but if you could please…fuck, Potter, forget it.”

Before Harry could respond, Malfoy was turning aside jerkily, one hand lifting the briefcase as he started to leave.

And before Harry thought about it, his fingers were grasping Malfoy’s wrist. They both startled at the touch, and Malfoy went abruptly motionless. For a moment, all of Harry’s attention was on his right hand and what he held; Malfoy’s bones were small enough that Harry’s thumb and middle finger met, the triquetral knob almost sharp where it stood out, the skin warm and soft, dotted faintly with springy blond hair. Malfoy’s arm and shoulders were rigid, and he resisted furiously when Harry tried to turn him with a gentle tug.

“Don’t,” Malfoy said, and the tone was so complex that Harry could’ve spent an hour deconstructing it. As it was, he didn’t have time. He heard anger and what might even have been hate, and Malfoy’s body was vibrating with the urge to hit, so when Malfoy suddenly sent his captured elbow toward his face, Harry reacted instinctively.

He twisted Malfoy’s wrist up behind his back, sending the briefcase loudly to the floor, and pushed the smaller man against the wall. Not hard; even in practiced, unthinking reaction he didn’t want to hurt him, but he definitely used enough strength that Malfoy couldn’t evade. That didn’t mean he didn’t try, however. Malfoy’s other hand came up to brace before shoving back, forcing Harry to restrain that arm too.

Part of his brain had already begun to say _whoa, you are officially crossing the line, you’ve no right to put hands on him, let go._ Another, less coherent part thought _it’s Malfoy, I can put my hands on him if I want to,_ as if there were some fundamental truth in the equation that Malfoy=Harry Allowed To Touch However He Wants.

Then Malfoy bucked against him, stronger than he had any right to be, given how slender he was, and Harry figured that the best way to subdue him without hurting him was to just use his body weight to press him into the wall. So he did that. Perhaps it made him stupid that he didn’t realize he was hard until his cock nestled snugly up against Malfoy’s wonderfully firm, round arse, but it was a little late, at that point, to do anything about said stupidity.

They both froze.

“Potter,” Malfoy finally said, and it came out conciliatory, breathy, and worried all at once. Even the incoherent part of Harry’s brain recognized that what had happened was cringe-inducing at the very least, likely career-damaging, and definitely humiliating if Malfoy went to the press as well as his boss.

If there had ever been a good time to read a facial expression to judge a mood, this was it. With a careful grip, Harry very slowly turned Malfoy within the circle of his arms, planning to position the smaller man in a way that would hopefully keep him from being either slugged in the eye or kicked in the balls while they talked it out.

As he began to do this, Malfoy’s face came into view first, staring upward at him in shock, and Harry’s breath caught, because everything he was feeling in the pit of his stomach was there, plain to see, on Malfoy’s narrow face. He looked…almost frightened, really, but also like he was waiting for something, waiting so keenly that tension thrummed inside of him. Harry continued to ease him around, thinking that he should be figuring out a way to convince Malfoy not to raise a ruckus over this—assuming such a thing could even be done—but all he could focus on was the impossibly slow slide of Malfoy’s body against his own. Shoulder against chest, hip against hip, until Malfoy stumbled over Harry’s foot in the turning, giving a little lurch that made Harry tighten up against him to curtail the movement. His limbs worked without thought, immediately going for the position that would most stabilize them while putting him at the least risk for damage.

He shifted easily to stand between Malfoy’s thighs and pushed Malfoy’s wrists—one in each of Harry’s hands—languorously over his head. And then, with a sense of profound inevitability, he let his full weight come to rest against Malfoy, erection be damned.

Malfoy’s reaction was, to say the least, unexpected. His eyes fluttered half-closed, his expression twisted, torn between fear and desire, and his hips jerked once. When his pretty lips trembled open, Harry’s breath caught.

“Fuck, Malfoy,” he managed, and barely recognized his own voice.

He let his hips roll in response, and Malfoy’s eyes sprang wide open. He yanked at his arms, struggling to get free, and Harry simply sank his weight harder against him, his fingers tightening, likely marking those slim wrists red.

And again, Malfoy’s reaction took him by surprise. The lean, firm body vibrated against his, slender hips lifting, and considering the way they were pressed together, it seemed impossible that Harry could have _missed_ the growing erection pushed against his own as long as he had.

“You like that, don’t you?” Harry muttered. Malfoy simply stared at him defenselessly.

Testing his theory, Harry widened his stance, pressing Malfoy’s thighs farther apart, and let his arms dig Malfoy’s harder against the wall. Those gray eyes slammed closed and a low, desperate sound came from that soft mouth. It lit Harry up, got his blood pounding. That sound meant more than willingness. It meant _want._

Harry growled softly, pressed so hard against Malfoy now that he would doubtless leave bruises. His mouth lowered to the shell of one ear, Harry murmured, “Think about how hard I’m holding you. You can’t get free, Malfoy. I’m not going to let you go.”

Malfoy shuddered and bucked against him again. Then again. A third time, and Harry couldn’t help the groan, couldn’t help the way his legs forced Malfoy’s wider still, and then Malfoy was moving, writhing, pressing and rolling his hips, climbing to get into the right position, and Harry could barely hold onto him. Malfoy began making a soft keening cry, and it got into Harry’s mind and wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t get into a good enough situation for his own pleasure, not if he wanted to keep Malfoy in this ridiculously tight hold, so all he got was a series of tantalizing, teasing, brushes against the head of his cock as Malfoy unraveled against him.

And oh, did he unravel. His mouth fell open, his head fell back, and he strained beautifully, panting and thrusting, riding the hollow of Harry’s hip wildly.

“Do it,” Harry gritted out, the words deep and demanding. He squeezed Malfoy’s wrists as hard as he could, feeling the bones grind together. “Gods, look at you. Come, Malfoy. I’m not letting you go until you come. I’m not giving you a choice.”

Malfoy’s eyes opened, blind with urgency. Harry watched his expression hungrily, fascinated by every small twitch and flicker that crossed that stern face, hints of fright and need and helplessness as the orgasm built. Then those emotions were lost, contorted by pleasure, and Harry leaned in, letting Malfoy muffle his cries against his throat, and when he felt teeth sink in he shouted into the crease of his elbow, very nearly coming himself.

For a long minute, there was only the sound of their panting breaths. Harry held Malfoy’s boneless, limp body against the wall until those long legs found their way back to strength. Harry lifted his head. With a wince, he peeled his fingers from Malfoy’s wrists, and so he caught the exact moment that the daze lifted and the smaller man realized where he was and what they had done.

Despite the claws of need still deeply dug into him, Harry could see the sheer panic forming in Malfoy’s eyes. He scrambled against Harry, going white, his breath speeding again but for a whole other reason.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, trying to sound reasonable, but it came out low and dirty, like he was still thinking about fucking, which, to be honest, he sort of was. In his struggles, Malfoy rubbed against him, and Harry let out a growling sort of groan, which definitely did not help, because Malfoy gave a low cry of distress.

“Please don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t. I can’t believe I…I have to…go…I have to go, Potter, I have to go, let go, please let go, leave me alone, please leave me, I have to—”

“Easy,” Harry whispered, but Malfoy’s anxiety infected him, and he stepped back, scared that his proximity was making it worse. Malfoy sprang free like a gazelle, heading toward the door at a rapid clip with jerky limbs.

“Wait, Malfoy,” Harry said. He began to follow and tripped over the brown leather briefcase. “Fuck,” he muttered, going back and bending down to pick it up.

By the time he’d straightened, Malfoy was already gone.

Feeling absurd and useless and guilty, Harry sank down onto one of the stools at the first island. The last five minutes—or however long it had been—had gone by almost in a blur. Disbelief darted through his thoughts. Surely that had not just happened. He could not have restrained someone without due cause. He certainly could not have restrained _Malfoy_ without due cause. Impossible, too, that instead of a threat of a lawsuit, he’d gotten to watch Malfoy come apart—and just plain _come_ —in his arms, clearly getting off on the whole restraining-without-due-cause thing.

And without a doubt, this had not just happened _at work._ With hundreds of Ministry officials and Aurors and probably a half-dozen reporters roaming the halls a mere ten feet away, on the other side of an unlocked door.

His throat began to ache dimly, and he lifted a hand, found wetness. With a disturbing amount of pleasure, he saw that Malfoy had drawn a tiny bit of blood.

He was painfully hard, and he seriously considered going into the nearest bathroom and taking himself in hand. It wouldn’t take long. Hell, now that he knew what Malfoy looked like during sex, he didn’t think it would take him more than a couple minutes to come ever again. All he needed was the memory of this.

Then he remembered the other look on Malfoy’s lovely face—bordering on hysteria—and all of his selfish lust began to drain away. Worry—all the more potent for the delay—slammed into him. He supposed that was what a panic attack looked like. He also supposed he couldn’t blame Malfoy for the reaction; Harry was suffering from his own brand of shock at what had occurred.

After he’d calmed down enough that he wouldn’t be walking through the Ministry with a hard-on, he got up and headed for his office, taking Malfoy’s briefcase with him. The parchment that Angie had given him was still on his desk, which meant he already had Malfoy’s address. He would drop by, and in one fell swoop return the briefcase while also making sure that Malfoy hadn’t hyperventilated himself into a coma.

And maybe, if Malfoy _was_ okay, Harry could do something about this sudden need to see Malfoy wild and reckless in his arms once more.

*

As Harry watched, Madam Pomfrey spared Draco a quiet nod. “I don’t see why you can’t go home in a couple days,” she said. “You’re recovering nicely, and although I’d really prefer to know just what caused all the trouble, I can’t deny that it seems to have resolved entirely. As soon as you’re a bit more rested and stable, I’ll let Mr. Potter take you home.”

Relief spilled through Harry, potent and hot and tempered only by the sense of unease that crept, nearly hidden, beneath it.

Draco had called him Potter upon waking from his nap. He’d said it easily, and with a tired smile, and no one else seemed remotely bothered by the tiny out-of-character inconsistency. They acted like it was just a slip of the tongue, and that reaction made sense, really, because none of them understood the name thing. None of them knew about the fight Harry and Draco had gotten into about it, or Draco’s embarrassed, awkward admission, delivered at a yell, that he still called Harry _Potter_ because he liked being the only one who did so. It was a sign of ownership, he’d said. A sign of their long-standing, tumultuous relationship. Proof that they had known each other for twelve years and been through a thousand struggles, tiny and large, and were still under each other’s skin in a way that no one else could ever be, for either of them.

Draco called him _Harry,_ and everything between them was as good as lost. Draco called him _Potter_ and Harry felt the weight of their entire relationship in the word.

Draco smiled up at him now, a wide smile with none of his usual sly humor, and looked far healthier now than he had just that morning upon awakening. He was getting stronger so quickly, Harry thought, and took comfort from it.

He took Draco’s hand and shook his head a little at his own foolishness, choosing instead to bask in the warmth of that wholly happy smile.

Everything was fine.

*

**Now, little one, I think we should talk about what comes next.**

_Don’t hurt him._

**Then don’t make me.**

And with Draco’s lips, the creature smiled.


	3. Tomorrow, The World

 

At the end of the workday, Harry collected his things along with the briefcase Malfoy had left behind and went to the Ministry apparition point. Upon arriving in the lane that Angie’s coordinates had taken him to, he found himself soothed by the picturesque English countryside he met on all sides; a late afternoon full of birds singing happily, light October breezes rustling leaves beginning to orange, and the pleasant crunch of gravel beneath his heels as he walked.

Malfoy owned several acres tucked among a lightly wooded area on the outskirts of Nailsworth in Gloucestershire. Harry was taken aback by this; Nailsworth was a Muggle town entirely, small and charming, nestled in the green, rolling hills of the Cotswolds. When he reached Malfoy’s drive, he had to double check that he’d gotten the right address; the little cottage was, in Harry’s opinion, an improvement over the Manor. Granted, Harry’s lone experience with the Malfoy family home was a bit tainted, what with Hermione being tortured and Dobby being fatally wounded there, but all the same, he couldn’t imagine that a pleasant day and a lack of enemies would really refine the place that much. Yes, this was a vast improvement.

A path of flat gray stones led the way through a tidy, beautifully landscaped yard to the cottage: two stories of warm, red brick wearing streams of ivy. The shutters of the square windows and the wide door had been painted a cheerful, soft yellow, and the glass gleamed, reflecting the autumn day brightly. There were planters of colorful blooms—Begonias, Harry recognized, from years of hearing Aunt Petunia run on about them—and rows of well-tended vegetables all along the white picket fence surrounding the yard. Nothing regal or majestic, only the sweet and homey and welcoming.

“It looks like a hobbit should live here,” Harry murmured.

“No hobbits,” came a squeaky, annoyed voice. “Can I ask Sir’s business?”

Harry startled, hand going for his wand, and managed to frighten the hell out of a tiny house elf in the process. The bulbous eyes widened and spindly fingers reached out in a gesture of pacification.

“Wasn’t causing trouble!” he screeched.

“Sorry,” Harry said, catching himself and stepping back. “I’m not going to hurt you. Sorry. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Accident,” the elf claimed, still eyeing Harry warily.

“Yeah, I get that. Sorry,” Harry said again. “Uh, I’m here to see Malfoy, if he’s got a minute. I’m Harry Potter.”

“Potter,” the elf repeated, peering suspiciously up at his forehead. After a moment’s hesitation and with no small amount of guilt for scaring the poor thing, Harry obligingly lifted his hair out of the way. As soon as the scar was bared, the elf’s cautious attitude immediately softened. “Oh, the great Harry Potter!”

Harry had to refrain from rolling his eyes at the near-palpable awe in the words. He had a hard enough time dealing with the gratitude of complete strangers on the street; house elves worshipped him nearly as much as they worshiped the ‘miraculous Hermione Granger’, and that was far more awkward to bear.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said wryly, knowing that the sarcasm would go over the elf’s head.

“Oh, you’re in perfect timing! How did you know? Many thanks, yes, yes, come in then, sir.” The elf’s entire bearing had changed, and now, beneath the respect and bowing, there was a definite air of worry.

“Okay,” Harry said, letting the creature gesture him in. “Thanks. Er, what’s so great about the timing?”

“He is polishing,” the elf said with the air of someone confiding a great secret. “Polishing away, and the doctor not answering. But Harry Potter is at work with Master, and Harry Potter is a hero, and he will help, yes he will!”

“Huh?” Harry said.

“Master is _polishing_ ,” the elf said, this time looking at Harry as if this should have some obvious meaning that Harry could only miss if he were being purposely obtuse.

“Right,” Harry said, utterly flummoxed and a little concerned now about what Malfoy was actually up to. “I’ll, uh, get right on that.”

By now they had reached the yellow door and the elf pushed it open, bustling through and directing Harry forward into a small entryway. The walls were paneled in skinny, vertical slats, all painted soft blue. Harry caught a glimpse of a white armoire-looking thing with hooks for coats and robes before the elf grabbed his hand and towed him forward. He was hauled through a bright, cozy living room with pale gray furniture: a large, cushy-looking sofa, matching chairs, a low coffee table with drawers, another large armoire-thing, this time with the sort of big cabinets that would have hidden a telly in a Muggle home, an enormous fireplace, and all of it perfectly decorated and absolutely _pristine_.

Harry’s place—a smallish flat under Fidelius—was decorated in a manner that could only be called fresh-out-of-school-bachelor-chic. He had a pub sign for Ogden’s Olde Firewhisky that lit up and showed a bar maid delivering shots with a coy smile (courtesy of Seamus on his last birthday) on his living room wall, he’d given up sitting on his sofa because of all the laundry piled there, and he hadn’t seen past the dirty dishes to the bottom of his kitchen sink since he’d moved in.

Comparatively, Malfoy’s cottage looked like some grand home from _Wizardly Living_ magazine. Harry was propelled to yet another well-lit, comfortably-decorated room, this time a kitchen. Big white and yellow tiles on the floor—again, spotless—and a large, rough-hewn wooden table were the prevailing features, although the sparkling stainless-steel sink and flawlessly clean, glass-fronted cabinets ran a close second.

A crowded array of silver items littered the table—candelabra, trophies, flatware, chargers (his knowledge of which came again per Aunt Petunia) and a bunch of other accumulated crap—and Malfoy stood at the far end, waistcoat and jacket cast aside, sleeves rolled up, blond hair wildly tousled, cheeks pale, eyes half-wild, madly polishing what looked to be some kind of vase with a rag. He was so intent on his furious activity that he didn’t even notice Harry’s arrival.

Suddenly the elf’s emphasis on _polishing_ as a worrisome thing made a lot more sense.

“How long has he been doing this?” Harry asked the elf quietly.

“Hours,” the elf replied mournfully. “Since return from work.”

Harry felt, abruptly, a great wave of guilt. Something was definitely up with Malfoy, but it wasn’t what Harry had thought. For all his manic energy, Malfoy did not look like the ravishing man who had come, crying out, in Harry's arms just hours ago. He looked…vulnerable. Upset. Sick.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, and the other man jumped, the vase falling with a ringing clatter, rag drifting sadly down after. Malfoy blinked at Harry for a few seconds with befuddlement, chest heaving. He started to bend to snatch up the vase, then caught himself and tried to affect a nonchalant pose.

“Oh. You’re…how…what are you doing here?” Malfoy asked.

Harry held up the briefcase. “You left it behind. Thought I’d return it.”

“Oh.” After a pause, during which Malfoy was clearly struggling not to squirm, he raised a hand and smoothed his hair. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A brief quiet, then Malfoy asked politely, “How are you?”

“Fine,” Harry said, then added pointedly, “And you?”

“Fine.”

The silence hung stiff and uneasy, and Harry had just opened his mouth to fill it with some inane comment, when Malfoy said, “Okay, so you can go now.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, and did just the opposite. He pulled out a chair and sat.

“Don’t do that,” Malfoy said, his shoulders slumping.

“Sorry,” Harry replied. “But I’m not leaving until the vibe you’re giving off is a little less crazy.”

“I’m not crazy,” Malfoy snapped.

“Sure.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Then you’re claiming that the vase has done something to personally offend you? Because from the way you were going at it, the poor thing isn’t going to have a surface left if you keep it up.”

Malfoy’s eyes fell to the vase on the floor and his fingers twitched, as if he wanted nothing more than to take up where he’d left off. “It’s meant to be calming.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working,” Harry said.

“It works very well,” Malfoy corrected him emptily. “It will keep working once you go. Goober, you should not have let him in.”

“Not the doctor?” the elf said slyly.

“You know he isn’t,” Malfoy said, but he didn’t seem angry exactly. More resigned, as if the elf had done this a few times before and Malfoy was used to it. Harry got a bizarre image of the elf trying to pull a Muggle postman into the house to help Malfoy stop _polishing._

“Doctor on the way?” Harry asked casually.

“Eventually. When she has time, and no, you aren’t staying until she gets here. I am fine.”

“Clearly.”

“Potter…”

“Mostly I’m just hungry,” Harry said, watching Malfoy closely. He had known Malfoy for years, had seen him under the effects of virtually every emotion, and this was one he didn’t recognize—or like. The man seemed, at that moment, rather lost.

“Eggs?” the elf asked. “We like eggs when we’re polishing.”

“We’re not feeding him,” Malfoy said.

“That sounds delicious,” Harry said cheerfully. “I love eggs.”

“We has plenty!” the elf all but sang, clearly unwilling to let Harry leave, lest the _polishing_ recommence. “Will make.”

“Merlin,” Malfoy muttered, and he sank into the chair next to Harry. “Fine. Eggs for all. Why not? I’m only _busy_ here.”

The snide undertone, at least, was a bit of a relief to Harry. That was the Malfoy that Harry knew, and somehow it was a relief to hear that sharp tongue after weeks of professional formality. They sat for a long time in silence as the elf scuttled over to the refrigerator and began pulling out ingredients. With a snap of his fingers, he lit one of the burners on the stove, and in only a couple of minutes, the sound of chopping reached them.

When they heard the whoosh of water running, Malfoy twisted to look over his shoulder at the elf and snapped, “Leave it! I’ll get it after.”

“Goober can clean,” the elf muttered mutinously, but he placed whatever he’d been washing in the sink and turned the water off.

Harry watched this with a knitted brow.

Malfoy did not wait patiently. One knee sometimes bounced, Harry saw him actually bite at a thumbnail, and he kept sending longing glances at the vase on the floor. At least, when he wasn’t giving Harry resentful, dirty looks.

Harry toyed with several approaches as he sat, studying Malfoy’s jittering. Finally, he went with what Malfoy had thought of as the ‘Gryffindor’ approach.

“Malfoy, what the hell is going on with you?”

“I had one thing left,” Malfoy snapped. “My work. I’d built a good reputation, I was doing my job well, proving that I could handle things, and then I let a man I have spent half my life _hating_ , my student no less, hold me against a wall so that I rutted against him like an animal until I came, I _failed,_ Potter, I let everything slip, fall apart, get loose, I _fucked up,_ and I am _polishing_ because the thought of all of this is making me want to do more destructive things, first of which is punching you in the face, so if you could _refrain_ from asking questions that irritate me, it could only benefit us both.”

By the time he was done with this, his breath rocketed in pants, his fingers strained white where they gripped the edge of the table, and his eyes stretched far too wide, staring at a pile of silver knives.

Harry winced. With one careless, impulsive moment of pleasure, it would appear that he’d broken Malfoy.

*

Night fell on the Hogwarts hospital wing, leaving only Draco and the Creature awake in a sleeping castle. Harry had gone home to his own bed for the first time since the accident, albeit reluctantly. It had taken some talking to get him to do so, but it had been necessary; Harry looked very rough. While the Creature had noted this absently, with the air of someone viewing a piece of not-awful motel art, Draco had been greatly disturbed by the lines of exhaustion and blood-shot eyes that made Harry look ten years older.

So Harry had finally gone, and Madam Pomfrey slept tight in her room, and there were only two other students nearby wrapped in starched, impersonal sheets—one the victim of the first Quidditch practice of the year, and the other having run afoul of a badly brewed experimental potion, courtesy of the rather inept new Potions teacher. Apparently seventh years were being encouraged to develop their own inventions; Draco was very sure that such a thing would never have happened in Snape’s day, and say what you would about him, he’d had fewer serious injuries in his entire tenure than the new teacher had in the last two school years.

But now that the wing was quiet and still and dark, Draco couldn’t distract himself with Harry’s tired eyes or the revised curriculum. If he’d been in control of his body, he’d have swallowed: this was their last night in the ward, and it was time for a conversation.

**Let’s begin, little one. Tell me of Lord Voldemort.**

_He’s dead. Harry defeated him. So whatever your plan is to help him, you’re too late!_

The Creature’s thoughts took on a definite tinge of amusement. **It seems I am thwarted. Whatever shall I do?**

Draco didn’t reply; uncertainty kept him still. He did not know what to make of the Creature’s cavalier attitude or the underlying pleasure emanating from It.

_You don’t care about him, do you?_

**Is he truly dead? And beware that you don’t lie to me. Your precious Harry will pay the price.**

_Y_ _es,_ Draco thought hatefully, even as he wondered if he _could_ lie without being caught out. He paid special attention to the way he sent the next thought forward, wanting to see how he might begin to differentiate between private thoughts and those he shared. _The Dark Lord is dead._

**Then no, I am not displeased about this. My aims were never his own; we each simply had something the other needed.**

_Which was?_

**You’re very curious.**

_I can’t imagine how I find the time, seeing as I’m so very busy these days._ In response to Draco’s sarcasm, the Creature turned Its lips—Draco’s lips—up into a smile.

**You brought that on yourself. I gave you a choice, and you made it. No whinging now about the way it worked out for you.**

_Some choice. To die or squat in my own body. Fuck you._

**I’m aware that you’re not without a justifiable complaint, little one, but let me be clear: you will not garner sympathy from me, and while you may think you’ve something to barter with, let me assure you that you don’t. There’s nothing I need from you that I can’t get elsewhere, given enough time, and we already know that if it comes to a question of Harry’s safety, you’ll fold like a house of cards. So please save us both time and drop the tough-guy routine. It’s hardly convincing.**

Draco’s rage left him unable to formulate a thought, and he lost all sense of self-control briefly. With all the strength he had left, he struggled and writhed and shoved and kicked, but he only managed to exhaust himself. The pressure which smothered him did not increase, but his grip seemed to waver. He knew then that he could not afford any more tantrums. Deserved though his rage might be, he didn’t know what would happen if he couldn’t hold on to the little space he’d managed to carve out for himself, and the fear that he might simply fade away left him cold. It might be time, he thought tightly, to reconcile himself to a basic truth: as much as it left him aching and desperate to admit it, he remained a captive in his head, able merely to maintain the tiniest of claims on existence. He had no ability to impact the world, to make changes within it, to speak or even affect his own breathing and body.

The darkness of his despair at that realization rivaled the black hollow in which the last of his mind crouched.

 **That’s right. You are but a voice in the wind now. A passenger.** The Creature’s voice wasn’t entirely without kindness at Draco’s situation. Draco wondered if it was real or an act, although he couldn’t think why an act like that would be necessary.

_Why are you doing this to me?_

**It’s nothing personal, little one. Quite simply? You happened to be there.**

It seemed impossible that there was no more meaning to Draco’s subjugation than that; worse somehow, the idea that he was incidental. His loss had no meaning, no animus. In a way, he was more of a victim this way. He hadn’t even been given the agency to _cause_ his own suffering.

Strange, that. The last eight years, ever since the war, Draco had gone to immense lengths to restrain himself, to keep all the dark and twisted and weak parts of his nature utterly bound, all in the hopes that he would be allowed to live in peace if he brought nothing new upon himself.

All that preparation and anxiety and restriction, and it was dumb luck that fucked him.

*

The eggs were superb, but Harry couldn’t give them their due.

He'd never been good with uncertainty. It made him frustrated, and then he tended to do stupid things just for the sensation of action. He was having this problem now, and so kept a tight rein on himself, but that didn't solve the problem of what to do. He tried to come up with helpful words instead of simply filling the space with useless platitudes, but what kept coming to mind was a picture of a kitten dangling from a tree branch by its claws above a scrawled, chipper order to _Hang in There!_

He thought Malfoy might hit him if he shared this. Harry would no doubt deserve it.

In the absence of anything constructive to do, he defaulted to studying the line of Malfoy’s hollow cheeks, the aristocratic blade of his nose in profile, the long arch of his throat when he tipped his glass for a swallow of milk. Harry’s gaze lingered most on the sweet curve of his lips, and he wondered at his own stupidity at not taking the opportunity earlier to taste them.

Malfoy ate primly; napkin neatly folded in his lap, every bite chewed thoroughly, barely a clink of china. He seemed determined to keep his movements controlled and precise, but his apprehension bled through: his right leg jogged on his toes whenever his attention drifted and he kept shooting nervous glances at Harry from beneath his lashes—a coy, nearly seductive gesture that Harry sincerely doubted Malfoy intended that way. More alarming was the way he sometimes hovered on the edge of another panic attack. His breathing would speed, his pale skin break a fine sweat, and Goober would hurry to his side and take his hand, making eye contact and giving Malfoy something calm to focus on.

Harry did not intervene in these moments; they seemed to have it under control. But he found Malfoy’s tenuous grip on equilibrium worrisome. He wished there was more he could do, but all he’d managed so far was to distract Malfoy whenever he became fixated on the vase and the silver polish. He did this by bringing up stupid topics, such as asking about the kind of tile that made up the kitchen floor. Malfoy had only given him a withering glare for that one, and Harry couldn’t blame him.

Kittens and tile. Harry was fucking useless.

Finally, he gave up on distraction and light conversation and cut to what he really wanted to know.

“How long has it been like this?” Harry asked, working hard for a casual, low tone. Malfoy sent him a sharp scowl, searching for judgment, perhaps, but Harry kept his expression neutral.

“That’s none of your business,” Malfoy said finally.

“No, that’s true. But I can’t help feeling like some of this is my fault. It didn’t occur to me that I might be pushing you into something you didn’t want.”

“Stop being a Gryffindor.”

“I’m being honest.”

“That’s what I said. Just…shut it, will you? You’re in my house, eating my eggs, apparently baby-sitting me out of some misplaced sense of guilt, and that’s all very noble of you, but I can handle it on my own. Even if you won’t go, you might at least stop being nosy.”

Harry sighed. Perhaps he would’ve gotten angry at Malfoy for his sharp tongue in the past, but he looked so…fragile, sitting there fidgeting in his chair, his normally pressed and uptight appearance frayed around the edges.

“Is there anything you will let me do to help?” Harry asked.

“No.”

Harry paused. “Are you a danger to yourself, Malfoy?”

The gray eyes closed briefly, and then they were interrupted by a whoosh and a feminine, surprisingly recognizable voice coming from the living room.

“Malfoy?”

Harry was already on his feet, shock blooming inside of him. Hermione was speaking as she entered the kitchen.

“Dr. Halbestan couldn’t be here, and she thought since…oh, Harry. Um. Well. Hello. I…suppose I should…well, shit.”

“Indeed,” Malfoy said dryly. “You volunteered, Granger?”

“I did. I’m so sorry, Malfoy, I shouldn’t have assumed it was just you and Goober here. I apologize.”

“Don’t bother. He’s rather an unwelcome presence in my mind as well.”

Harry shot both of them a dirty look, but Hermione’s brown eyes were running over the elaborate mess of silver crowding the table except for the two half-eaten plates of eggs.

“How are you?” Hermione asked Malfoy. “Is anything urgent?”

“No. I’m at about a four now,” he replied. “Potter interrupted my coping skill, or I’d be even better, but…”

“Would you like me to escort Harry out?” Hermione asked him, and Harry shook his head.

“I’m not leaving.”

“You are if he asks you to,” Hermione said, and her tone had a firmness in it that was rarely directed at Harry. It considerably blunted his determination that he was needed and had his eyebrows shooting into his hair.

Malfoy seemed uneasy. “Granger, I don’t want you to…”

“I am here for you,” she said, both kindly and resolutely. “You’re my priority. Harry is a reasonable person. He will understand, and even if he doesn’t, it’s not your job to worry about me, remember?”

“You can take care of yourself,” Malfoy said, with the air of someone repeating a well-worn phrase.

“Exactly,” Hermione said, smiling. “So would you like me to walk Harry out?”

“Yes.”       

Harry reminded himself that he should be relieved by that response. This was neither his business nor his responsibility.

“All right. You can resume polishing now if you need to.”

Hermione aimed a warning look at Harry that clearly said _do not argue with me because you’ll lose_.

“You can get Kreacher to make you some eggs if you’re still hungry,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Harry hesitated, conflicted. “Malfoy, if you need…”

“I don’t,” he said, staring at the silver vase on the floor. “Thank you for bringing my briefcase back.”

Harry surveyed him one more time, struck again by how vulnerable Malfoy looked just now; his shoulders were slumped, his face averted, his hands in balled up in fists at his sides. In a way, the fragility made him even more beautiful, or maybe that was just Harry’s savior complex at work. He couldn’t quite make himself believe that this was the same person who had once tried to Crucio him in a bathroom, who had handled a room full of hostile Aurors with aplomb, who had unraveled in Harry’s arms, bucking and twisting and biting and desperate. Just the memory was enough to get Harry’s cock interested in a repeat, and he had to stop himself from reaching out.

“All right,” he said eventually.

He followed Hermione out. When they got to the lane, she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I didn’t want to lie to you, but this sort of thing is confidential. And he’s clearly in need of support right now, so he has to be my first priority. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, and squeezed her fingers. “I get it. And I’m a reasonable sort of person, remember?”

She smiled. “I’ll see you on Sunday?”

“Yeah. Give Ron a punch for me?”

“Absolutely.”

She left him then, moving purposefully, and Harry imagined her returning to the kitchen to find Malfoy back at work with his frantic polishing of the silver. It had not occurred to Harry that the task was a coping skill meant to ease his anxiety; Harry had assumed it a symptom that should be interrupted. Minus one for the uneducated, Harry thought sourly. But then, he was probably allowed to be a little off his game, considering the surprises of the afternoon—now evening.

That Malfoy had such strong anxiety issues wasn’t the only thing; in fact, that seemed pretty well established in retrospect. It wasn’t even that Malfoy lived with an elf that Malfoy apparently cleaned up after.

No, what surprised Harry was that he didn’t want to leave.

*

The floo deposited them into the living room, and Harry immediately put a hand under Draco’s elbow to stabilize him, worried when the other man stumbled.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Draco replied, his voice and bearing giddy.

Harry studied his partner closely; while Draco had regained his healthy flush and his eyes seemed alert, he’d lost weight during his time in hospital, and his cheekbones and jaw were sharper than usual.

“Food, I think,” Harry decided. “Why don’t you get into bed and I’ll scramble you some eggs? Sound good?”

“All right,” Draco said. He paused at the foot of the stairs, taking a moment to glance back and forth at the two closed doors just down the hall—the first floor bath, currently being remodeled and therefore shut away, and the stairs to the basement and his potions lab—before heading up to the second story.

Harry didn’t move, even when Draco had gone from view and he could hear the creak of floorboards overhead.

It had seemed, for just a second, like Draco didn’t know where to go.

Stupid, Harry told himself, huffing a breath and smiling a little at his foolishness. Draco was just tired. A little discombobulated, what with everything that had happened. Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t have released him if he was as any risk of memory loss. Maybe he’d only thought to head downstairs and check on his equipment for a second before deciding he wasn’t quite up to it. Harry shook his head and headed for the kitchen.

*

Waiting until Sunday—when he could corral Hermione and pry for answers about Friday afternoon that she likely wouldn’t give him—was far more exhausting than Harry had expected. He spent much of his time doing chores with only half of his attention, and as such ended up wearing dirty socks and washing clean ones before his drawer yielded an undershirt so pungent that his mistake became clear.

He did not understand why his mind kept drifting to Malfoy. On the one hand, it was the sort of situation to make anyone curious. And perhaps Harry could excuse it as part of satisfying the instinct that had led him to suspect that something about the man was problematic in the first place. But he couldn’t really explain why he kept flashing on Malfoy’s open mouth as he panted, his gray eyes blind with need, his hips rocking wildly against Harry’s as he worked himself to orgasm.

Okay, he admitted, it had been hot. But he and Malfoy were not friends, and although Harry didn’t need to be in love or anything before sex, he had set a general rule that he had at least to _like_ a man first. And he didn't particularly like Malfoy.

Well, he didn’t mind this grown-up version of Malfoy so much, even if it sometimes made him wish for a little more spirit. In fact, the vitriol that had sprung up during their impromptu egg dinner had been sort of a relief. Harry couldn’t quite say _why_ he’d enjoyed having Malfoy’s bratty behavior make an appearance, but the fact remained that he had.

He could definitely live without the whining and the evil, though. No matter how intensely eager Malfoy was when he was turned on, Harry couldn’t get around either of those less-attractive character traits.

Harry wasn’t out; the press hounded him enough without the added motivation of a sexual orientation scandal. The Wizarding World was more liberal than that of the Muggles, but Harry was, to his chagrin, still big news, and the fact that he was gay would make a hoopla regardless. He didn’t feel any shame about his orientation, although there was sometimes anger at the thought that he was in a position where lying was easier than being honest, but that had more to do with being Harry Potter than being gay. This made dating and sex extremely tricky. Angie Finnegan hadn’t been wrong about his need to vet potential boyfriends, and as such, Harry’s experience was limited, in large part, to fumbled groping in loos with Muggles in gay clubs and hurried blow jobs in alleys behind the same. Much of it was under the influence, and all of it had been with strangers.

Well, strangers when it started, at least.

After a somewhat-heated hand job in a stall, Harry had kept seeing one bloke, Timothy Reel, a wizard in his early thirties who was also very much in the broom closet. This lasted for nearly six months before they’d split. Reel had decided to try to live straight and settle down with a witch to satisfy his family, and Harry had hardly been in a position to argue against hiding. It had ended amicably, far too amicably, really, for a relationship that had gone on so long, which Harry took as a sign that it was the right choice. Reel had worked for a legal non-profit, and Harry sometimes bumped into him at functions, but they rarely did more than nod or exchange pleasantries as it was brutally awkward each time.

So while Harry wasn’t inexperienced by any stretch, he didn’t have much of the kind of experience he really wanted, which was the sort of relationship that might one day lead to a family. Harry figured he would have to come out sooner or later; he had no intention of hiding his husband or children away like they were a dirty secret. But he was still getting orientated in his career, and the press had not learned to move on to more important subjects yet, so there would be time for all the rest eventually.

And while he thought it plainly obvious that Malfoy liked men, he’d never heard tell of Malfoy’s preferences in public, so he suspected Malfoy wasn’t out either, making for yet another potential consequence to getting caught at work.

Clearly, there were many reasons why that quick, hot tangle with Malfoy had been ill-advised. In addition to Harry’s complicated situation, Malfoy was a fucking wreck, and Harry would have to be a truly selfish prick to push there.

That did not protect him from a burgeoning fantasy of pushing Malfoy against the nearest hard surface the next time he saw him, perhaps a wall or a bookshelf or a door, and then shoving his cock into the hollow of an elegant hip with the taste of Malfoy’s mouth under his. It certainly didn’t keep him from taking his cock in hand four times over the weekend with those sensations in mind. And it did absolutely nothing to prevent him from coming with Malfoy’s name on his lips.

There was guilt, yes, at the memory of Malfoy tearing off after, but that didn’t stop the wanting.

After family dinner on Sunday, Harry cornered Hermione away from Ron with a pointed look.

“I figured this would happen,” she said, rolling her eyes, but smiling nonetheless. “Come with me, you demanding twit.”

Once they were well away from the Burrow, Hermione said, “I’ve already spoken with Malfoy about what he’d be all right with me sharing with you. I’m going to warn you now that it probably won’t be enough to satisfy you, but that’s all you’re getting, so don’t bother arguing.”

“All right,” Harry said, fully intending to argue if he wasn’t happy.

“He’s had some anxiety issues. I think that’s probably clear. During my training rotation in the Mind Healing specialty, I was apprenticed to Doctor Helena Halbestan, who has been treating Malfoy for quite some time. This was after Malfoy came to me and apologized, and it was also after we’d struck up a more easy-going acquaintanceship. We weren’t friends, but we weren’t enemies any longer, and when Dr. Halbestan asked him if he would be all right if I assisted, he agreed. I haven’t been treating him since my rotation ended, but whenever Dr. Halbestan is unavailable and Malfoy’s in an acute state, I volunteer to help if I’m free, as I’m already familiar with his case.”

“I put most of that together on my own,” Harry admitted.

“Aren’t you a sharp one,” she said, knocking a teasing elbow into his side. “He let me share that much with you because he didn’t want me to be in a position where you would be angry with me. It’s quite considerate, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated, then said, “I can’t offer any advice to you about anything, and everything he tells me is confidential, but if I can say…be gentle with him, Harry. Please?”

Harry nodded. “I’ve no intention of hurting him.”

She stopped him, turning to give him very direct eye contact. “Please, Harry. I mean no offense, but you’re a roughshod kind of guy sometimes. It’s charming and very forthright of you, but you’re not always the most sensitive person. Please listen to me. Be gentle.”

He realized abruptly that Malfoy had told her about the incident at the Ministry, and his cheeks burned bright red. Her eyebrows lifted knowingly when she saw this—now they both knew what the other did, although they could not discuss it—and Harry turned away.

He’d known he was the cause all along, but somehow, having Hermione know made his culpability more real somehow. He couldn’t look her in the eye for it.

“You needn’t feel guilty,” Hermione said firmly. “I don’t counsel that you be gentle because he isn’t capable of making his own choices, for good or ill, because he is, entirely. I just don’t want you to get so wrapped up in what you want that you put yourself in an untenable position.”

“Untenable,” Harry repeated.

“The two of you have always been volatile. You can bring out the worst in each other. But you’re more resilient these days, and he’s…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised her. He could admit that his little fantasy about Malfoy and hard surfaces didn’t qualify; it was harder to admit just how keen his disappointment was.

*

**So this is what a cottage looks like.**

_Don’t make a mess._

It laughed, and hearing Draco’s voice raised in laughter with the Creature’s amusement driving it sounded downright off. Draco’s laughter didn’t have that note of recklessness.

**This is our room?**

_Yes._

**Our bed?**

A horrid thought occurred to Draco, and he didn’t reply. He tried hard to hide his concern, afraid that simply by thinking it, he would bring the idea to the Creature’s attention. But it was difficult, suddenly, to avoid picturing Harry as he looked while they were fucking—green eyes hard and intent, muscles tight and straining, hands sure and demanding as they wrestled every last bit of sensation out of Draco.

The thought of the Creature seeing Harry that way, _being_ with Harry that way, made everything Draco had left cringe. _Please, no._

**I’ve more important things at the moment, little one.**

The relief that spilled through him had him folding slightly under the weight of the Creature’s mind. Panicked, Draco bolstered himself immediately, regaining his small space with relative ease. The anxiety took a while to relax, and he went through one of his coping mechanisms—one of the few he had available to him without control of his body.

 _List the good,_ he thought. _Harry is safe at this very moment. I feel able to hold on at this very moment._

And then he stalled, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

 _Harry,_ he begged silently then, following along helplessly at the Creature began to paw curiously through their drawers for fresh clothing, _Harry, help me._

The Creature ignored his pleas. But then, why shouldn’t It?

Draco could do nothing anyway.

*

On Monday, Malfoy reverted back to his flawless professionalism. If he was a bit stilted with Harry and avoided eye contact, it wasn’t so pronounced as to attract attention. At least, not from anyone else.

Harry felt the distance acutely.

He watched Malfoy walk gracefully through the conference room, judging potions, delivering a lecture, his movements confident and capable, and Harry…well, the only word for it was lusted.

Harry _lusted._

When class ended and everyone had gone, Malfoy slowly walked behind Harry to exit, and Harry had to grip the arms of his chair to stay seated. Everything in him wanted to turn and push Malfoy’s trim little body up against the wall, wanted to fill his hands with that spectacular arse, wanted to spread those long thighs with his own and grip delicate wrists until Malfoy cried out and begged and _used_ Harry for his own pleasure until he was limp and sated and sleepy.

But the memory of panic and polishing and Hermione’s voice saying _gentle_ was potent.

And Harry let him go.

The same thing happened on Wednesday. Harry watched and simmered and lost himself in half-formed fantasies while Malfoy taught, and at the end of class, he waited, body humming, for the moment when Malfoy would pass him on his way out.

He didn’t think he was the only one to sense the thickness in the atmosphere, and he didn’t think he was imagining the slight hesitation in Malfoy’s step as he passed. And when it happened again on Friday, (Gods, the way the fabric of Malfoy’s trousers clung to those slender hips when he moved should be illegal) Harry wondered how long he would last before he broke.

Then, on the following Monday, it was Malfoy who stopped.

The conference room had emptied entirely, and the silence sank around them, stark and considerable, filled only with the rap of Malfoy’s heels as he began to leave, a sound that abruptly stopped behind Harry. He didn’t turn around, and he didn’t turn around, he just didn’t, all the way up until he did. Malfoy’s suit—charcoal gray with a red tie—was proper as always and his hair neat and styled. Only his expression stood out of order, full of the fire and arrogance that Harry so associated with him, and it made Harry absurdly happy to see those emotions loose.

Robot Malfoy was intriguing and lovely to look at and far easier to interact with, Merlin knew, but this was what Harry really liked. This was the touchable Malfoy, the one that fought back, the one that got Harry fired up and speaking up and _hard._

“You have to stop doing this,” Malfoy hissed.

“Doing what?” Harry asked, bewildered. He’d thought he was doing so well.

“You’re _looking_ at me. You’re…you’re distracting me, and it’s impossible to concentrate. So you have to stop sitting in class and looking at me and listening to me so hard.”

“You’re the teacher. I have to look at you and listen to you.”

“It’s the way you’re doing it, you arse, and you know exactly what I mean. So stop it.”

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you’re picturing me naked,” Malfoy snapped. “Like you want to fuck me.”

“I am, and I do.” Harry shook his head at Malfoy’s open-mouthed shock. “I can’t help it. It’s hard enough just keeping my fucking hands to myself. I’m managing that because I don’t want to hurt you, all right, but I can’t help the way I look at you, and if I’m going to suffer, you can damn well suffer with me.”

Malfoy stood uncertainly, shifting his weight. Finally he ran an agitated hand through his hair. “I can’t do this.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Yes, you are,” Malfoy said. “In the cowardly sort of way that puts all the pressure on me to make the decision while allowing you to claim that you never asked. But you’re not saying no and you’re not leaving, so we both know what you want and what you’re asking.”

“Fine,” Harry gritted. “I’m asking. But I’m also saying that it’s okay if you say no.”

“No fucking shit. And what I’m saying is that I can’t do this.”

Harry absorbed the hit with no small amount of disappointment. “Can I at least ask why not?”

Malfoy rocked on his heels again, not looking at him. He cleared his throat. “I need things a certain way or…and I have to maintain my…I can’t _come_ without…”

He turned bright red and came to an awkward stop. Harry decided to take each piece one at a time.

“You need things a certain way or…you panic?”

Malfoy didn’t want to answer, that was plain, and Harry felt grateful that he did anyway. “Yes.”

“And you have to maintain…your calm?”

“No. I have to maintain _myself._ ” Malfoy sighed and lowered his head. He spoke quietly and without anger. “My first instinct is always to _use,_ Potter. And I’m…I’m not to be trusted.”

Harry blinked. “Maybe that’s not as true as it used to be.”

“Maybe. But if so, it’s because I watch that line every minute of the day. I can’t be what I was. I refuse.”

Harry felt a hot flush of something that he couldn’t quite identify. He’d felt something similar for Cho Chang once upon a time, and he’d gotten faint wisps of it for Timothy occasionally, but never anything this strong, not for either of them. Harry supposed the closest word would be _liking_ , but it seemed too weak and vague for the actual sensation. He wanted very badly to brush Malfoy’s hair back from his forehead.

Deciding that was a dangerous impulse, Harry moved on to the third unanswered statement.

“And you can’t come without…” He paused, thinking, considering all of the evidence—the constant need for control (how tiring that must be, he decided), the anxiety at the thought of being without it, and Malfoy’s responses last time—before finishing, “Without someone taking the choice away. Because the choice is where the responsibility is, right? It’s where the stress comes from.”

Malfoy swallowed once, meeting Harry’s gaze but with an air of not wanting to. “Yes,” he whispered. “I haven’t…with someone…not since I developed the attacks…not until…”

“Until me.” Harry groaned softly, scrubbing a hand over his face. The idea that he’d been the only one to see Malfoy orgasm in however long it had been—years, possibly—made it ten times harder to stay in his seat. His cock began to harden—fast. “Christ, Malfoy, you have to get out of here.”

“What?” Malfoy twitched, taken aback. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, there’s a very real chance that I’m going to shove you up against that wall and yank your trousers down and suck you right here and now.”

Malfoy’s cheeks flamed red and his breath came out in a long, trembling sigh. His lean body jerked and he took half a step in the vague direction of Harry before going still. “I…This is bad for me.”

“I know. That’s why I haven’t done it yet. So you can go. But do it now if you’re going to. I’ve never been a big one for self-control.”

Malfoy nodded once, the motion tense. “I can’t do this at work. It’s too…”

“Take me home with you then,” Harry said, his voice deep and rough and demanding, then closed his eyes. “Forget I said that. Fuck.”

Malfoy wavered, his indecision clear in his expression. Harry bit his lip hard enough to leave indentations, determined that he wouldn’t push.

“You’d have to hold me down,” Malfoy whispered.

“Done,” Harry growled, and stood. He took Malfoy’s elbow and towed him toward the door. They made their way to the apparition point, nodding (Malfoy politely, Harry brusquely) to colleagues as they went, moving swiftly through the bustle of Ministry employees and visitors.

“Discretion,” Malfoy hissed, yanking at his arm. In concession, Harry slowed, letting it seem less like he was hauling Malfoy around, but he didn’t release the smaller man. At this point he wasn’t sure he could.

Harry was vaguely aware that he was leaving in the middle of the workday to have sex, a distinctly bad career choice, but then they were being swept into the black, unpleasant tube that was apparition, and he couldn’t make himself care.

Upon arriving, he couldn’t pretend not to haul Malfoy around anymore; halfway up the path to the cottage, Harry felt a stumble and he yanked to keep Malfoy on his feet without even pausing. The door opened to show Goober smiling and bowing, and Malfoy was barely able to say, “Privacy, Goober,” before Harry was yanking him forward again.

In the living room, Harry shoved Malfoy to his knees, making quick work of the tie around his neck—red with small silver somethings dotting it—and then looping the fabric around the leg of the sofa. Malfoy didn’t help or speak or look up. He simply yielded, which might have been troublesome if Harry hadn’t known what would happen when Malfoy finally felt free to let loose. With a hand on one strong shoulder, Harry had Malfoy on his back and soon enough, the smaller man lay with his wrists tightly restrained over his head.

Harry paused for roughly three seconds, looking Malfoy hard in the eye, waiting for a protest, and for second the air between them vibrated with everything that was about to happen. It was different this time, with none of the sense of being caught up in something. This was decisive. Purposeful. That lent this moment a meaning that the first occurrence had lacked, and Harry was a little frightened of considering what that meaning might be.

His self-control clung by a thread, but he held out, waiting, loving the heat and fear and helplessness in Malfoy’s face. Harry thought Malfoy _must_ be about to say something—the weight of everything was too strong not to acknowledge—but the other man simply blushed and turned his gaze away. Modest; even downright demure, a delicious contradiction to the bound wrists and mussed hair. And nothing about it hinted at refusal.

Good enough.

So Harry sort of fell apart.

He might’ve torn a button in his haste, and then the flies were opening under his fumbling fingers, revealing black silk beneath. He yanked trousers and pants down, making that slender body bounce a bit with the force, and he didn’t stop until everything was well below Malfoy’s knees. This revealed a half-hard cock, lovely and thick, surrounded by curls a shade or two darker than the white blond Harry had expected.

“Fuck, yes,” Harry gritted out, and he used his hands to press slender hips to the carpet. Malfoy twisted under him, making a soft sound, and Harry took that as a positive sign. He lowered his head and took Malfoy in, as deep as he could, and had the distinct pleasure of feeling that cock stiffen up so fast that Harry couldn’t help growling.

He licked along the foreskin, dipping his tongue along the head, finding the vein on the underside, tasting pre-come, and when Malfoy tried to buck, Harry leaned his weight forward, keeping him still.

Malfoy cried out.

Harry set to his work wildly, lost in the flavor and feel of the heavy cock on his tongue, the broad head brushing the back of his throat, the shaft full and hard and silky all at once. He let his lips drag, sucking and bobbing his head, moving one hand in concert, forceful and demanding and harsh. He was dimly aware of Malfoy begging, of those long legs kicking and straining, but the power and the speed of it all meant Harry couldn’t focus on anything but the flesh deep in his mouth.

He slipped one arm around that perfect arse, hugging Malfoy’s groin to his face, his palm cupping the opposite buttock and clenching down now and then. Malfoy yanked on his wrists so hard the sofa jolted, and Harry grinned around his mouthful; this was what he’d wanted, the desperation and heat. Malfoy wore it beautifully. Harry released the base of Malfoy’s dripping cock, and used that free hand to tunnel down between the sweet, pert cheeks to brush a fingertip against a pink, tightly-furled entrance.

Malfoy let out a throaty cry before beginning to chant something and Harry cued in enough to hear _close, close, oh, fuck, close._

So Harry shoved, and that finger pushed into that snug little hole, gentle but uncompromising all the same, going deep, no doubt rough and too much, but Malfoy all but shrieked, hips jerking, and come flooded Harry’s mouth.

Harry released Malfoy’s hips, his tongue still working as he swallowed it all, and fumbled past robes to yank open his own trousers. He drove a hand in, fisted himself, and in a matter of only a dozen strokes, came hard and violent, fighting not to clench his teeth around Malfoy’s cock.

Then he pulled off and rolled to one side, resting his head against a pale thigh, breath wild.

“Holy shit,” he gasped.

He got a nonsensical grunt in response.

After a long minute, he managed to look upward—Malfoy’s eyes were closed, his expression nearly peaceful. His fingers were dark red, and Harry suspected the tie had pulled tighter during their bout, but Malfoy seemed unconcerned.

A white wisp appeared in the corner of his eye—a hawk Patronus with a golden halo, a sign that he was being summoned back to the Ministry—and Harry cursed. “I can’t believe this, but—”

“Go,” Malfoy said, his voice as relaxed as his body. “Just untie me first, would you? I think Goober would be distressed.”

“Of course I’m going to untie you,” Harry said, offended at the very idea that he wouldn’t. With a flick of his wand, Harry set him loose, and with a second, he cleaned up the mess in his pants. “You’re not going to have a panic attack, are you?”

“It’s not like you’re going to stay if I am,” Malfoy murmured, not making any attempts at moving. “But no. I think an hour or two of polishing will suffice.”

Harry didn’t leave; he couldn’t tell if Malfoy was serious, but the guilt was coming back now anyway, thick and meaty, and it didn’t help that Malfoy looked thoroughly debauched, lying there on the floor, the loose tie still draped over his wrists, trousers and pants around his ankles, cock and balls exposed, shirt rucked up to reveal a lean, tight belly, his cheeks rosy, eyes closed.

“Gods, Malfoy, you’re fucking beautiful.”

Now those eyes opened, wary and nervous instead of pleased, and Harry shook himself, thinking that this was not only the opposite of the _gentle_ that he’d promised Hermione, but also quite haphazard. “Dammit. I have to go. But if you want me to…I mean, if you’re upset at all…I could come back after work.”

Malfoy began to pull his trousers up; Harry thought this rather a shame, but began backing toward the door all the same, suddenly keenly aware that he was missing a meeting. Even as he admired the outrageously perfect curve of Malfoy’s arse, he was trying to concoct an excuse that wouldn’t get him fired.

“Maybe I had a delayed reaction to a potion,” Malfoy said, almost as if he’d heard Harry’s thought. Harry would’ve been grateful, because it was a decent enough explanation, but for the fact that Malfoy sounded like a robot all of a sudden. And not Robot Malfoy, prim and reasonable, but an actual robot—empty and mechanical. “Maybe I needed assistance getting home for an antidote.”

“Why do you sound like that?” Harry asked, his stomach roiling. It wasn’t the same feeling he’d gotten during fourth year when he’d realized he was only a few weeks out from the second task and hadn’t even bothered to figure out the egg clue. But it was pretty damn close.

“This is how my brain works,” Malfoy said quietly. “Always ready with a lie, Potter. I’m rather a shitty person.”

“You’re not,” Harry said. Then, because he wanted to stay, needed to fix this, he said, “Fuck.”

“You should go.”

“Right.” But Harry remained at the threshold, ambivalent.

“Go,” Malfoy repeated.

Harry went. It was only once he was back at the Ministry, sweaty and disheveled and pissed off, that he realized he’d missed his opportunity to kiss that tempting, hot mouth. He stopped to kick a bin as he stalked down a hallway and startled a little old lady into conjuring a whistle, which she then blew long and loud until someone came to rescue her from an apologetic Harry Potter.

*

Harry had eggs cracked and in a bowl, ready for stirring, when Draco came back downstairs. Gone were the pajama pants and t-shirt; now he wore Muggle jeans and a button-down with an actual hoodie.

“What…” Harry said, utterly perplexed by the sight. “How…are those my jeans?”

“Probably,” Draco said, “And I think we should go out, don’t you? We’ve been cooped up in that hospital wing for days, and I’m bored. What do you say? Go out?”

Harry glanced down at the counter, at the two yellow yolks peering up at him like eyes from the bowl, and thought, _what the fuck?_ “You don’t do that,” he said dumbly.

A faint crease appeared between Draco’s eyebrows. “Well, not really. But I’d like to now, you know. Need a little life, a little excitement.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

Draco hesitated, his gaze drifting off to the right, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. Harry frowned.

“I’m fine,” Draco said finally. “Really. I just feel antsy. Could we go out? Please, Potter?”

“Okay,” Harry said. He slowly cast a stasis charm on the eggs and put them in the pantry under the cooling charm. “If you like.”

“I do. And after, we should split up. You need rest, and I have some things to take care of.”

“Things,” Harry repeated.

“Just some errands.”

“Errands.”

Draco nodded, glancing off to one side again before abruptly snapping back, eyes suddenly shrewd. “Ingredients and things. I’m behind for work. Boring stuff. So after we eat, you should definitely come back here for a nap.”

“ _I_ should nap? You’re not tired?”

“I’m not the one who’s been sitting at a bedside for five days. And frankly, love, you look it.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly, even as he blinked at the endearment. Draco wasn’t prone to them, and Harry couldn’t deny that it made him flush pleasantly.

“Any time. Did you know that in Japan, whale meat is a delicacy?”

Harry surprised himself by laughing. “What is going on with you?”

Draco shrugged. “I read about it once. It would be a new experience. It’s important to do that, to try new things and keep reaching to make your life fuller. Right? Do you think we could find some?”

“New experiences?” Harry asked, confused.

“Whale meat.”

“In London? I think it’s illegal. I think maybe whales are endangered.”

“Oh. I don’t want to endanger something.” Draco’s brow furrowed and his lips pursed. He appeared deeply concerned, and Harry found the expression downright adorable. “Maybe sushi? Ooh, squid! They’re not endangered, are they?”

“Draco,” Harry said, laughing helplessly. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m just happy.”

“Is that all?”

Draco nodded. “I just…I want to _do_ things. We spend so much time here, and that seems stupid all of a sudden. Don’t you think it’s stupid to stay inside?”

A little spark of happiness burst open in Harry’s chest. He loved Draco; he had loved him for years, but it would be a lie if he said that he hadn’t struggled with the restrictions that Draco’s condition and stubbornness put on their relationship. He had become familiar with Draco’s self-loathing, and rarely complained about the methods employed to minimize it although he disagreed that so much restriction was necessary—he felt that Draco consistently underestimated his self-control when it came to his destructive impulses—he’d seen enough of Draco’s fear and panic to be more than willing to make concessions. That didn’t mean those concessions didn’t take a toll.

It helped that Draco never tried to curtail Harry’s own activities; he didn’t seem to want Harry to join him in his quiet stillness and he never once pouted or made Harry feel guilty for needing more socialization or spontaneity. “Go out with Ron,” he would say. “Go play Fantasy Quidditch. Have fun.”

And so Harry would, but never without wishing that Draco could come with him, just every now and again. A simple dinner out with his partner was, in a way, an enormous thing to Harry, because it was something he rarely got.

Perhaps Draco’s fall had affected his mind, but not the way an injury would. In a way, he’d faced his fear and come out alive on the other side. Maybe, just maybe, Draco had realized that all of his worry and anxiety was not worth giving up all of the opportunities in life that he had been unable to enjoy. This might be what freedom looked like, Harry thought, and the hope that crowded within him sped his pulse and made him lighter.

“Yes,” Harry managed. “We stay in all the time, and it’s too much. There’s so much out there.”

“Right. So I’m going _out._ But I’m _starving_ ,” Draco said dramatically, taking Harry’s arm. “So it’s food first. Then you get a nap, and I run some errands and tonight we’ll watch a movie. You needn’t worry, Potter.” He flashed Harry a charismatic smile, one that nearly took the top of Harry’s head off, it was so blinding. The image of Gilderoy Lockhart darted through Harry’s thoughts before fading, because no matter what _Witch Weekly_ might think, Lockhart’s blinding charm had nothing on a happy Draco Malfoy.

“What on earth is happening?” Harry asked, smiling but feeling very much like he’d started watching a program on the telly that was already half-over. But it was a program he’d been wanting to watch for ages, and once his brain caught up, he knew it would be fantastic.

“Don’t worry,” Draco repeated, winking, towing Harry after him, moving with the speed and energy of a whirlwind. “I’ve got it all under control.”

*

 _He’s going to notice that you’re not me,_ Draco thought desperately, taking in the laughter and befuddled affection in Harry’s face. _He will. I don’t do things like this. I don’t just go out and try new things._

The Creature tipped Its head, listening, as Harry fiddled with his phone, looking for a Muggle restaurant that served sushi. He mumbled to himself as he searched, a habit that Draco found ridiculously cute.

**Why not?**

_Because…_ Draco didn’t know how to explain about his anxiety and the way that it would fill his throat and chest at the barest hint of threat. He couldn’t say that he had to avoid stress for fear that he would respond, instinctively, with the kind of hateful, vicious behavior that had once led to the death of a venerable wizard right in front of him, to the torture of innocents at the point of his wand, to the loss of friends and family and a Mark on his forearm that he would wear until he died. It was all wrapped up together, a great ball of fish hooks, his choices and his rage and his determination to never, ever be what he’d been before. He couldn’t let go of the storm of nervousness and fear without letting go of the boundaries, and then he would be right back where he started.

Selfish. Stupid. Dark.

No, he didn’t know how to make it all sound rational, and besides, this fucking monster that crouched inside of him didn’t deserve the story anyway. So he kept it simple.

_Because then I’d be like you._

**That doesn’t make any sense.**

_You can’t see it. But it’s how I’ve managed to be different. How I’m better than I was. How I don’t use people the way you do. Not anymore._

**How is that related to restaurants?**

Draco’s frustration spilled over. _It’s not about restaurants. It’s about control. And you can’t control what’s out there._

The Creature considered this thoroughly in a place that Draco couldn’t hear. Then, **You should’ve been the one living in a cave.**

 _What?_ Thoughts could whisper, Draco discovered.

**Really, it’s dumb luck that you’re the one who fell into that sinkhole. It’s not like you were using your life anyway.**

If Draco had been in charge of his lungs, he’d have lost his breath.

Harry lifted his head, a wry smile forming. “Here’s a place that serves sushi, and the online menu says they have squid ‘when available’. Want to give it a try?”

The Creature smiled back. “Absolutely.”

 _He’ll know it isn’t me,_ Draco cried. _He’ll know._

Harry took the Creature’s hand in his, and even from his dark, cramped, painful little space deep in the Creature’s brain, Draco could hear Its triumph.

**Doesn’t look like he will, little one. Just doesn’t look like he will.**

“Are you ready?” Harry asked, amusement and fondness ripe in his voice. “We have so very many new experiences waiting, after all.”

“Lead the way,” It replied, nodding.

_Harry! Please! SEE me!_

“You’re sure you’re not too tired?” Harry asked, key in hand, one eyebrow raised.

“Squid today,” the Creature said cheerfully. “Tomorrow, the world.”

Harry laughed.

 

 

 

 


	4. A Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has references to a connection between BDSM and mental health issues. This is NOT meant to imply that people who engage in BDSM are crazy or have disorders or anxiety by definition, as that's not remotely true. This is something that applies uniquely to Malfoy in this case, as he's not really approaching the practice for the same reasons as many (most?) people do. I mean no offense to anyone who plays =D

As Harry paid their server and collected their take-home swans o’ foil (the remnants of Draco’s three different half-eaten desserts), he decided that aliens had replaced his boyfriend.

In the time they’d been together, Harry had gotten used to a certain rigidity in Draco, a sense that he would tip over rather than bend, that he would never allow himself to be caught unawares by violence or danger. This was only partially his anxiety, Harry believed. It was also the behavior of a man who had grown up entitled and rich only to see that vapid happiness destroyed by cruelty and darkness, some of which was even of his own making. No, Draco would never again view the world as a place without risk or himself as singularly safe within it.

Draco carried this rigidity in his body as much as his mind and manner. He had a very specific and curt way of walking, with grace, yes, and athleticism, but also with a brusque refusal to be distracted or slowed. When out in public, he moved, Harry had often thought, like a ballet dancer in the middle of a murderous rage. Lovely to watch, but you didn’t want to get in the way.

In fact, their first time out running errands together had been an exercise in frustration; Draco had been annoyed at having to stop numerous times to wait for Harry, who had been annoyed at feeling rushed and left behind. Harry had finally snapped, “Why don’t you walk slower? Stop and smell some fucking roses, Malfoy.”

“I have allergies,” Draco had said.

“You do not, you little liar,” Harry replied. “All our lives, I’ve never even heard you sneeze. You’ve never had a single reaction to pollen.”

“That’s because I walk _quickly._ Hurry the hell up.”

Now, though, that rigidity had gone. As Harry guided Draco out of the sushi restaurant with a hand at the small of his back, he shook his head in awed amusement at this. Like he didn’t have enough work already trying to adjust to the idea of being here on a date with his partner, now he had to see Draco relaxed and happy as well. And bizarrely attractive in Harry’s Muggle clothes: relaxed, approachable, sexy. While t-shirts weren’t unheard of around the house—Draco owned some for sleeping, albeit in the most expensive cotton available—Harry had never seen him go out in public wearing one. And he’d never seen Draco in jeans before. Ever.

He looked good in them, even if they were too big for him. Harry decided to buy him a pair, and after Draco inevitably had them tailored (how Harry had ended up with a man who would tailor jeans was beyond him), they would probably do wonders for his arse. Not that his arse needed any help.

The late morning air was crisp and cold, but their warming charms held up well. It was pleasant to relax and look along the chilly winter lane at bundled-up passersby.

Harry watched Draco as they walked toward an alley so they could disapparate privately. That handsome, normally-tense face had slipped into nearly-relaxed lines. Draco took in the bustle around them with interest and enjoyment, and he even paused to peek through a shop window.

“This was nice,” Harry said, understating his feelings quite a bit. He couldn’t count how many times during the meal he’d paused to take in the swell of happiness in his chest. Just the week before, he’d been hollow and aching at the thought that he was losing Draco, and now they were out in the world, eating sushi and chatting and _living._

“It _was_ nice. Although the squid was more rubbery than I’d have thought.”

Harry couldn’t help smiling. Draco might be behaving differently in an effort to embrace his second chance at life, but that apparently didn’t include becoming a romantic.

“How did it feel?” he asked. "You seemed calm the whole time."

“I was,” Draco replied.

“No anxiety at all?”

“Why would there be?” But the confusion prompted by Harry’s question vanished as Draco paused, taking a long survey of Harry’s suddenly-intent expression before offering a sudden, sly smirk. “When I have the great Harry Potter to protect me?”

Harry hesitated, feeling a brief, light ping of worry in his gut before allowing himself to be distracted by the flirtation. If Draco wasn’t up for talking about whatever was going on with him, Harry wasn’t going to get anywhere by pushing. He’d learned that much over the years; the one sure trigger of a patented Malfoy temper tantrum was not responding to cues to _back off._ Draco needed space to make up his own mind sometimes, and Harry meant to give it to him.

“Why, indeed?” he replied dryly. “So you’re sure about this? Errands?”

“Positive. Need to get caught up on work, and there are a few things I’ll need. Only heading to Diagon Alley. I’ll be fine. I know my way home.”

Harry licked his lips, forced himself not to clutch at Draco’s hand. “Sorry. It’s just…I’m likely to be a bit clingy for a while.”

Draco nodded. “Sure.”

“It was close, Draco.”

Those gray eyes narrowed slightly, and Draco tipped his head to one side, considering him. “It was,” he agreed quietly. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, then I guess I better,” Harry said, and stepped in, mindless of the crowd around them, using a knuckle to tip Draco’s chin up for a casual kiss good-bye. But the kiss was neither casual nor affectionate. Instead, the lips against his were cold in more ways than one, and Harry pulled back frowning.

“You all right?” he asked.

Draco was staring at him with something approaching disdain, as if Harry had done something uncouth, like spilling soup down his front. Draco raised a hand, rubbed a fingertip against his lower lip, and the mild disinclination slowly faded.

“Fine,” he said. “You just took me by surprise.”

“Draco,” Harry began, and the ping in his gut returned. He looked Draco over carefully. The way he was standing. The way he was behaving. It was a _lot,_ wasn’t it? A lot of changes? And—

“I have squid breath,” Draco said, and that explained the unresponsive kiss so well that Harry relaxed again—Draco was the prissiest man he’d ever known. And that was saying something, because Harry knew Percy Weasley.

“Ah,” he said. “I’ll settle for one on the cheek?”

Draco obediently leaned in and pressed his lips to Harry’s…well, his jaw, really, but careless aim wasn’t worth complaining about. “I’ll see you at home in a little while,” Draco added. “For the movie.”

“Deal,” Harry replied.

As he turned in place and entered the black pressure of apparition, Harry felt better about the whole thing.

*

On Tuesday evening, the day after the blow job on Malfoy’s living room floor, Harry admitted that he had a problem.

It had begun on Monday, just minutes after leaving Malfoy lying on the floor of his cottage. Harry had gone back to the Ministry, determined to get his act on track (leaving work for sex? What the fuck had he been thinking?). He’d maybe slipped a little at the realization that he _still_ hadn’t kissed Malfoy, and sure, it had been embarrassing to fumble an explanation to security about why the supposedly-great Harry Potter had been kicking over bins at work. However, that slip was temporary, he decided. This thing with Malfoy was just stupid. Just effing stupid. And Harry was done letting it jerk him around by the cock. He had determined to put it aside and get back to his life.

Things hadn’t exactly worked out that way though.

It made sense that he would have Malfoy on the brain during the meeting at the Ministry on Monday; after all, one second he’d been sucking the man’s cock and pressing a finger up into Malfoy’s hot, tight arse, and the next he was sitting in a droning lecture, struggling to concentrate on the necessity of accurately filling out E23 forms after making arrests. He’d spent the rest of the day distracted by thoughts of naked Malfoy; it took so much energy _pretending_ to work that he’d put in twice as much effort as a normal day would’ve taken.

Maybe he thought about it while he was cooking and eating dinner and clearing up (Malfoy’s panting breaths, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the oxford shirt pushed up to reveal a lean torso and a line of golden hair trailing from his navel downwards). And when Harry finally fell into bed and there were no more distractions, maybe his hand found his cock as he remembered the flush of pink on Malfoy’s skin rising from his throat into his cheeks and the way his thighs and buttocks had tensed when Harry held him still for his mouth, and maybe, just maybe, Harry came with the memory of Malfoy’s delicate wrists wrapped in that red silk tie.

He went to sleep thinking very concretely that all of this made perfect sense and had no bearing on his understanding of the world at all, and that he had sincerely gotten it out of his system. There. Problem solved. Crisis averted. The Malfoy box had been thoroughly check-marked.

Except then Harry had woken up with sunshine streaming into his eyes, his sheets wrapped around him, feeling overheated and sleepy and stupid-headed, because his hand was already tugging on his cock while he recalled the taste of Malfoy’s come on his tongue, and the way Malfoy had _writhed_ when Harry licked him, graceful and desperate, and the way he bit his lower lip raw when his head fell back against the carpet and the way his mouth moved as if he needed to beg but didn’t dare say the words aloud, and the soft, warm pliability of that pale skin under Harry’s questing fingertips and the red tie around slim wrists…

Harry came so hard he found droplets of semen on the underside of his chin.

“Fuck,” he muttered in disgust.

Still, he didn’t really think of it as a problem per se, not until after work, when it became clear that if this kept up he would end up getting himself killed. For the second day in a row, he’d been utterly useless at work, and if his attention remained this fragmented in the field it would be downright dangerous.

Now he sat in a chair in his kitchen, still wearing his uniform robes, annoyed and hungry. His thumbnail scratched absently at the frayed edge of one of the placemats Molly Weasley had made for him as a housewarming gift when he’d left Grimmauld behind. Harry sat at the table for nearly an hour, forcing himself to consider just why it was that Malfoy got under his skin so easily—and had done since the day they’d met.

By the time he stood up, he’d come to a certain truce with himself. He had no answers as to why Malfoy had this effect on him, but the truth was that he didn’t seem capable of kicking it any time soon, so he’d better figure out a way to manage it.

He took a shower. Grabbed some dinner.

Then Harry went to the local library and booked a PC in the far corner of the computer lab. Six other patrons sat at other carrels, partially hidden by the small walls set up between stations. He slid into his own seat with his shoulders hunched, feeling a bit hunted. There was no way anyone could know what he was here to research, and no way for anyone to see his screen from his place in the back of the room, but he still couldn’t help feeling like Madame Pince was going to appear out of nowhere and shriek to high heaven about Harry’s disgusting interests. He reminded himself several times that he wasn’t doing anything wrong, except perhaps being about to violate the library’s policies on appropriate internet usage.

The PC was a hulking thing, easily ten years old, and it took him a couple minutes to figuring out how to open the browser and log in. Harry didn’t have a lot of computer experience, and his skills were mediocre at best.

When everything was ready to go, he hesitated. The library was bound to have blocked certain types of sites; Harry wasn’t quite sure his search skills were up to getting around those. So he decided to start in the most broad, obvious way, and went to a search engine.

Then he typed RESTRAINING SOMEONE. With a wince, he hit enter.

That pulled up a lot of fighting and martial arts sites and more than a few threads about restraining orders. Surprisingly innocuous. He let out a breath and tried again, this time using RESTRAINING SOMEONE IN BED.

This got only added a wealth of medical sites about restraining patients in hospital beds and the like.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “The one time you’re actually looking for porn on the internet, and it’s nowhere to be found.”

Finally, thinking he might be opening a can of worms, he typed in BONDAGE. The first link that came up, though, was utterly non-threatening: a Wikipedia entry titled Bondage (BDSM). Taking a deep breath, he started reading.

After a while he sat back, brow knitted, mind whirling. The entry had included explanations about various types of bondage, the uses and risks, and the ways that bondage showed up in artistic photography. The whole thing had a very encyclopedic tone, dry and utterly passionless, which made the whole thing more palatable in way. At the very least, he didn’t feel like a pervert for reading about it. But the entry didn’t talk much about _why_ someone would engage in bondage, and that was what Harry had been needing clarification on.

Oh, it made sense in a kinky, giggling girls in fifth-year kind of a way, but there was a difference between playing at something for a little thrill and struggling with a psychological compulsion.

Harry had seen enough of Malfoy’s condition now to know that ignorance on his part could be very damaging to the other man. And while Harry was not quite ready to think about what it meant for his relationship with Malfoy (such as it was) that he was in the library researching bondage, if he was going to indulge this strange fascination that Malfoy held for him, he was going to do it in a way that would hopefully minimize the destructive impact this whole thing might have on both of their lives.

He scrolled through the entry again, looking more carefully in places where he’d skimmed before, and this time, a quote from a book by Marianne Apostolides caught his eye. She’d written, “Some people have to be tied up to be free.”

Obviously on a literal level the quote made no sense, but Harry immediately knew this was the source of Malfoy’s need, even though the concept was hard for Harry to wrap his brain around. For Harry, the idea of having no control was downright frightening, and not in a remotely sexy way. He had been restrained, been tortured, been in fear of losing his life, and all of these things came back to him when he imagined letting someone tie him up. In fact, just sitting in the library thinking about it had his pulse speeding with adrenaline. No, Harry would never _need_ to be tied up to feel free, never need someone else to make the choice for him.

However, Harry could sort of see that if you didn’t trust your own judgment, then being responsible for making decent choices could be a source of profound anxiety, especially if that choice came with potentially serious consequences. Harry tried to picture what that would be like: the fear that might come from not knowing if you were doing the right thing, from knowing that the simple fact that _you_ wanted it made the nature of the wanting suspect. It would be very easy to freeze up in the moment. If you doubted your ability to choose something right, then Harry could see the possible addiction in not choosing at all.

Harry found himself remembering the day that Sirius died. He’d been so _sure_ that it was up to him to save his godfather, that his chosen course was the only way to save someone he loved, and he had been wrong. Trusting his judgment had led to something horrible happening, and while Harry knew it was not solely his fault that Sirius was dead, there had been consequences that Harry would carry for the rest of his life. He had been able to rebound from that and trust his inner voice again, but then, that was one situation against dozens when Harry had chosen right. In that way, he wasn’t like Malfoy.

Malfoy was a fuckup.

Harry felt a little mean thinking it, but he had to admit it was true. Or it had been, anyway, from before the war and during, if not now. He’d been a two-faced Slytherin bully as a child, having absorbed some truly messed up values from his father and mother, and as a teenager he’d become a Death Eater, letting his deranged Aunt and her band of freaks into Hogwarts. He’d even tortured people at Voldemort’s behest. And his mission to kill Dumbledore had led to Katie Bell and Ron nearly dying—both of those attempts had been colossal fuckups in their own right.

Harry winced at the long list. No wonder the guy didn’t trust himself to make choices. No wonder he couldn’t relax without knowing someone else was taking care of things.

In a way, Harry mused, he sort of respected the guy for it. Malfoy had seen the consequences of his actions and had determined that he would live differently from now on. Perhaps he’d swung a bit too far to the opposite extreme; instead of making a ton of shitty decisions he was attempting to not make any at all. But better a criminal tied up in knots—literally and figuratively—than one doing horrid things over and over without care, right?

Harry took a deep breath. Put like that, the concept of why Malfoy might like this wasn’t actually so hard to get behind. Now what?

He closed his eyes, picturing again the way Malfoy had yielded to him yesterday, lying back and giving his wrists to Harry as if he didn’t doubt for a second that Harry would be worthy of his trust. There had been something intensely arousing about wrapping the tie around those slim bones, about seeing Malfoy’s demure submission in the way the gray eyes lowered and those pale cheeks flushed pink.

Even now, with just the memory, Harry’s cock twitched and began to harden.

Tying up Malfoy definitely got him hot. Okay. Now he had only to figure out how to do it right. Wikipedia made the whole process seem complicated, and while there weren’t many pictures, a couple of them included ropes wrapped in such complex knots that Harry would’ve needed an hour and a diagram to figure out how the hell to put it on Malfoy.

He got a mental picture then of Malfoy draped in ropes, rolling his eyes and tapping his foot impatiently while Harry peered desperately at an instruction manual. He couldn’t quite smother his chuckles, prompting a woman down the aisle to shoot him a dirty look for making noise.

He hit the back button to return to the search engine, typed in BONDAGE BDSM, and then, hoping for some kind of step-by-step pictorial, clicked on the tab for images,

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

The pictures were so graphic and extreme that at first he could only stare, feeling violently uneasy. They were almost exclusively of nude women, explicitly posed and bound in ways that emphasized their submission and pain. More than a few included such severe bindings that flesh had begun to swell, bruise or even bleed. Harry’s erection fled. His eye caught some of the descriptions of the photos, and the language made him cringe. Not only because it seemed to refer very crudely to the women in question (whom Harry could only pray had actually consented, although he couldn’t imagine why in fuck they would have) but drew the comparison out to all women, which struck him as misogynistic and even downright dangerous.

Downright sick to his stomach, Harry methodically cleared his history and closed the browser.

Would Malfoy want anything like that? Harry hoped not, because if so, he wasn’t going to get it, not from Harry at least. Holding Malfoy’s wrists against the wall was rather arousing, and Harry could imagine doing a great deal more—but Harry had zero desire to _dehumanize_ him. At least, he didn’t think so. He considered, for a second, that maybe part of the heat he felt came from the knowledge that after years of antagonism, the restraints symbolized that Harry had defeated Malfoy, as only an enemy could be beaten. But the idea seemed mean-spirited even hypothetically, and he found nothing arousing in it. For Harry, then, it wasn’t about vengeance or humiliation. He just wanted to feel that he could possess Malfoy, make Malfoy experience pleasure at his touch, make Malfoy _admit_ that he wanted Harry, and the restraints made that more possible. He could do anything, Harry acknowledged, but he _wouldn’t._

Which, he supposed, was where the trust came in.

That right there made Harry skid to a stop—because it occurred to him that Malfoy would have to be a fucking idiot to trust Harry in this sort of situation. They’d exchanged countless hexes over the years, and if _Sectumsempra_ hadn’t taught Malfoy that Harry could be dangerously, unreliably impulsive, he didn’t know what would. Harry knew he wouldn’t abuse the trust, but Malfoy didn’t.

So why was Malfoy letting him do this?

Harry groaned loudly, prompting another dirty look from the other patron, but he ignored this one and pushed his fingers against his forehead.

Why could nothing with Malfoy ever be simple?

*

The crack of Harry’s disapparition left Draco and the Creature standing alone in the street.

Draco couldn’t quite manage to form thoughts yet; he was entirely too wrapped up in what had just happened.

Harry had kissed the Creature.

He had not realized that It was not Draco. Even with all of the obvious differences between them—Its willingness to go out, Its sudden interest in life experiences, Its misunderstanding of Harry’s claim that lunch was nice (when Draco knew all too well exactly how much such a thing would’ve meant to Harry and affectionately used it to milk Harry for something in return), Its wardrobe—Harry had not suspected. Harry had _kissed_ the thing that was trying to kill Draco.

He wasn’t sure what to feel first. He had two emotions competing for his attention, and they were equally overwhelming: the rage that colored his awareness red and hot and violent, vying against a pain which was at once sharp and gnawing, as if something had stabbed into his body and begun to devour all that he was. Oh, but wait. That had _actually_ happened.

And the kiss was merely a symbol of the betrayal Draco felt that Harry had not been able to tell the difference between him and the Creature. Yes, Draco could admit that _body snatching_ was perhaps at the bottom of a list of potential explanations for strange behavior, even in the Wizarding World, but for FUCK’S SAKE! How could Harry miss that there was something off? How could Harry not have seen the changes and suspected head injury, psychological trauma, or even some bizarre infection from his wounds?

After all the effort Harry had put into getting Draco to be with him and after all the times that Harry had claimed to love Draco, what it came down to was that Harry didn’t even notice that it wasn’t Draco standing before him.

Funny how, even as adults, instinctive childish responses still leapt to the lips when something bad happened. And right now, all Draco could think was _it hurts._

How much of this would he have to watch? He really wasn’t up for seeing Harry and the Creature live happily ever after.

For a moment he wondered if it were possible to go insane when locked in a small square of his own mind. The tiny spot of space to which he clung seemed a useless thing all of a sudden. What was the point in holding on? By refusing to let go he had retained exactly one thing—awareness of his own suffering. And even if he didn’t feel exhausted already, there would be no relief. This would not end in a few hours or days. If Harry didn’t figure this out (and it was starting to seem a very real possibility), this would be the rest of Draco’s existence.

Madness, at least, might be a way out.

Draco’s emotional upheaval didn’t interest The Creature.

**Are you done yet? Because I have places to go. How does apparition work?**

_I’m not telling you anything. You can’t learn it in an afternoon, and by trying you could kill us both._

**I’m a very quick study. Explain it. Now.**

_Or what?_

After a brief pause, the Creature leaned back against the brick wall. Its breath was fogging in the cold air, but it seemed in no rush.

**We’re very bad-tempered all of a sudden. Is a kiss really so bothersome, little one?**

_Fuck you._

The Creature laughed with Draco’s voice, which really only pissed him off further. Draco couldn’t bear the laughter; to have his body and life usurped was one thing. To be mocked and humiliated about it was another.

_I hate you! I hope you die! I want to watch you burn and suffer, you filthy fucking monster! Fuck you! Fuck you to death!_

The Creature rolled Its eyes, and Draco’s rage and pain reached a fever-pitch. With all the strength he had left, he _shoved_ these emotions at the Creature, needing distance and freedom so badly that he felt strong enough to break through steel. And he felt something shift in that dark, terrible pressure around him. A sense of space opening up. He tried to hold the space, imagining his mind expanding, throwing up a void between himself and the Creature.

It took enormous energy; he could feel his grip trembling, as his muscles would whenever he attempted a new exercise of intense difficulty. But the space responded, growing tentatively outward, in fits and starts, and as long as he concentrated with everything he had, it held.

_What is that? What the fuck did I just do?_

The Creature did not respond.

Shock coursed through Draco for the second time that day.

_Can you hear me, you fucker?_

No response.

_Here’s how you apparate…_

Still nothing.

Draco felt a wild, mad glee because for that split second, he was alone. His mind was his own again. It wasn’t that the Creature was gone—the pressure still remained, and so the Creature did as well. There was simply a divide now that hadn’t existed before, and the Creature waited on the other side.

Abruptly Draco’s mental muscle gave out and the divide collapsed, the pressure snapping back like a rubber band released. He did not have the strength to keep it at bay; worse, he could barely scramble to hold on to the little space he’d possessed before. The compression came and grew and overwhelmed, and with a last, terrible burst of panic and grief, Draco thought _Harry!_

Then the darkness took him.

*

By class time on Wednesday, Harry had come to the conclusion that this _thing_ between himself and Malfoy was a mistake. His trip to the library had done exactly what it was supposed to; it had given Harry the knowledge he needed to make an informed decision. And what he had realized was that every time Malfoy let someone tie him up, he put himself at risk for the kinds of things that happened in those pictures. To let an enemy do this was the height of self-destruction.

Malfoy was a wreck.

At the very least, Harry would be taking advantage of someone vulnerable. In addition, the last thing Harry should do, as a man who hoped to remain in the closet, was to start sleeping with someone unstable.

He didn’t think Malfoy would out him purposely—he would be outing himself as well, and Malfoy seemed to crave dignity and control of late, two things that a riot of humiliating press attention for sleeping with the so-called Savior would not give him. He did worry, however, that Malfoy’s anxiety might lead him to do something which, while not malicious, would nevertheless hurt Harry’s career or public image.

Choosing to come out because Harry had fallen in love with someone suitable was one thing—no one would hold that against him, and while the press attention would be ridiculous, it would mostly be about wedding nonsense and social support. Getting caught secretly fucking a former Death Eater, on the other hand, would be a nightmare. That would certainly affect both his career and his reputation in the Wizarding World, thereby limiting the good he could do with charities and political causes. Not that he was involved in that many of them, but when werewolf or house elf rights came to be questioned (as they were fairly regularly, whenever intolerant, self-important humans got up to acting like the right shits that they often were), Harry had no qualms about throwing his weight around. For that to work, though, he’d need some weight in his corner.

So this needed to end. Harry walked into class with Ron at his side, confident and secure in his decision, knowing that this was smart, mature, and entirely responsible.

Then Malfoy walked in, wearing those perfectly-cut trousers that made his arse look round and pert, looking calm and cool and professional, every inch of Robot Malfoy in his element.

At least until his eyes accidentally caught Harry’s. For a count of five, the contact held and burned, and then the little bastard blushed and averted his gaze, just as he had when Harry had tied him to the couch leg before sucking his cock.

Harry was instantly, powerfully, painfully hard.

Dammit.

*

Draco came back to himself with a foggy exhaustion. For a little while, Draco felt almost blissfully empty. He existed in a floating pond without thought or emotion. He simply _was._

**Where have you been?**

The thought came with a sort of distant curiosity. The Creature did not care about the answer; it was merely intrigued enough by the scenario to wonder at the cause.

**I thought perhaps I’d finally crushed you.**

Not so much bliss now. Draco forced himself to give himself a mental head-shake.

_What happened? I don’t know where we are._

**That tends to happen when you cease to exist for a couple of hours. You miss things. Don’t fear. I’ll be done in a moment and we can get back to your precious Harry.**

The Creature had brought them to a dank shop in a vaguely familiar lane. Draco was acquainted with nearly all of the Dark sections of Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and London, but it had been nearly six years since he’d visited any of them. The Creature pushed the door open, setting off a pealing bell that notified the shop owner that he had a customer. It proceeded to look around while It waited.

What light came through the dingy windows was brown, and it gave the whole shop a disused, ancient air. Shelves lined the walls and sagged pathetic and heavy, laden with fat books and dusty trinkets and phials of unidentified liquids. Draco saw tins filled with human bones and countless filthy candles, most with labels that explained what oils they’d been anointed in or the charms they’d been spelled with, daggers imprinted with runes on the sheaths, moldy pumpkins with strange herbs pasted to the skins, and what could have been a Hand of Glory.

Draco flinched from that thought immediately.

A reedy old man emerged into their aisle, gray haired and pock-marked and yellow-toothed, someone Draco knew quite well indeed, and Draco had a moment of _this is bad._

Whatever the Creature’s plans were, they did not serve the side of the angels.

This was Gerald Webb, owner of Cobb and Webb’s, which meant they were in Knockturn Alley. And Gerald Webb was a pureblood-supremacy sympathizer whose much-loved son had been a Death Eater before his death.

“Look who deigns to lower himself back into the muck from whence he came,” Webb said, his voice thin and wheezy. His claims of being a pureblood would’ve been more convincing if he hadn’t sounded like he’d grown up in the East End. “Malfoy. Have you given up trying to pretend that your soul’s not as twisted as the rest of ours?”

In a voice as blunt as Webb was dramatic, the Creature said, “Where is Jugson?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I knew, you upstart little shite.”

Draco wouldn’t have been afraid of Webb, nasty bastard though he was, except for the fact that Draco didn’t know how much of his magic the Creature had access to. If Webb tried something and the Creature couldn’t cast anything in return…this could very well prove fatal.

_He will attack if you provoke him. Be cautious._

The Creature ignored him. Instead, he simply reached out and struck Webb across the face with the back of his fist. Hard. Webb’s skinny little body flew backwards into a shelf before hitting the ground, and the old man let out a screech of pain and fury. The Creature moved quickly, following him down and wrenching a wand from the crab-leg fingers. Then It hit the man a second time. And a third. The dull thuds—like melons dropping—resonated thickly in the little shop.

_Stop it!_

Again, Draco was ignored. Now blood spattered Draco’s hands where they tunneled deep into flesh and met bone and tooth and cartilage. Finally, barely out of breath, the Creature stood upright, the old man’s wand gripped lightly with both hands. It fiddled with the wood, bending it gently as if testing its pliancy.

“Once more,” It murmured. “Where is Jugson?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said, words sliding past broken teeth and emerging with bubbles of blood. The Creature sighed as if disappointed and began to lean forward.

The old man shrieked. “I don’t! Day of the battle, soon as Potter shows his face and proves he ain’t dead—again—Jugson did a bunk. He showed up here and collected the trunk in the back, took some stuff off the shelves which he _still_ ain’t paid for, and took off. Made a joke about warmer climes, but it might’ve been shite, I don’t _know._ ”

“Who else did a bunk, as you say?”

“Who the fuck can tell? Jugson’s the only one what stores things here, isn’t he? So that’s the only man I’d see, then, innit?” When the Creature kicked him in the face with an expensive leather lace-up, Draco heard bone snap under the heel. The old man howled and grabbed at his nose. “I don’t know, I don’t know! He’s not my friend, I’m not protecting him or nothing, I just don’t _know!_ ”

The Creature said, “Who would?”

The old man didn’t have to think long. Adrenaline could do that, Draco supposed. If he’d been in charge of his body, he’d have been sick long before now, but with the Creature in control, Draco’s stomach felt right as rain. He might’ve been sorting through post for all his blood pressure had risen.

The old man gave a frightened chuckle, bitter and cringing at once. “Your old man, I’d think, before he died. Maybe one of the others in there. Don't know anything else."

 **In there?** The Creature thought directly to Draco.

_Azkaban. Please stop hurting him._

**No, I don’t think so.**

The Creature crouched, peering into the swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “I’m going to introduce you to the concept of communication, Webb. There’s a chain of events that will begin now, and we’ll take turns. I go, then you go, then I go again, and in this way, we successfully convey information to one another. So I’m going to ask you again for a name. When it’s your turn, you’ll either give me the name or you won’t. If you do, when it’s my turn again, I’ll say good-bye and leave. However, if you give me more argumentative bullshit instead of a name, then on my turn I’m going to slice your testicles off. It’s not words, really, but it’s still a form of communication. Think of it as body language.”

The old man’s skin went white.

The Creature continued softly, ignoring Draco’s silent moan of protest. “Are you grasping the nature of civilized conversation yet, Webb?”

The old man nodded jerkily.

“Good. And now that you know the rules and how to play, it’s time for an open dialogue, don’t you agree?”

“All right,” the old man babbled. “Yes, whatever you say, Mr. Malfoy, sir, just like your father, Death Eater through and through, my mistake, sorry, sorry.”

“My turn. I’d like a name now, please,” the Creature said.

Webb didn’t hesitate for an instant. “Jugson sometimes talked about a pureblood girl in France that he had his eye on. Family had money and ties to the cause. Ugly as fuck, according to him, but had a good motion on her when she was horizontal. Family name of Freemantle. Don’t know the first name. But I don’t know if he went there or not. She’s just the only other person I know of having anything to do with him. Not many would house the likes of him in this sort of political climate. Is…is that good?”

“Very good. And now it is my turn again. This is a reminder to you about the role of silence after the conversation has finished,” the Creature said. It reached out, making Webb flinch. But It only tugged the handkerchief from the old man’s vest and began to wipe the blood from Its face. “If I find out that you warned Jugson or the Freemantles, or shared the news of my visit with anyone else, we will pick up this conversation where we left off. Do you remember what comes next in our conversation, Mr. Webb?”

The old man blinked up through tears and whispered, “You’ll cut my bollocks off.”

“Yes, I will,” the Creature said. “There. I’m glad we’re communicating now.”

It snapped the old man’s wand in half, dropped the pieces, and walked out of the shop with the old man sobbing on the floor in his own blood.

Outside, in the alley, the Creature looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, still wiping methodically at Its arms, hands and chest. Fortunately, the black t-shirt hid the spatters of blood well. There were drops on the jeans as well, but they looked sort of like paint against the dark wash of the denim.

**Smelled foul in there. Now then, let’s go home and watch a movie with Harry, shall we? I've never seen a movie before. I'm rather looking forward to it.  
**

Draco said nothing to that.

There were no words.

*

After class, Harry hung back, sitting on his stool and jittering like mad. He didn’t have the first clue what to do or say. He’d made up his mind only to change it again at least a dozen times during the lecture and practical brewing exercise, and now he had a headache borne of sheer frustration and confusion growing behind his eyes.

Malfoy calmly went through the motions of putting his things away, and eventually they were alone.

“Potter,” he said, “I’ve thought a lot about this, and I think—”

“Let me come over tonight,” Harry interrupted.

Malfoy broke off, jaw clenching once. “No.”

“No?” Harry blinked. In all of this, in all of his back-and-forth worry, it hadn’t occurred to him that Malfoy wouldn’t want to go forward. Perhaps that would come across as arrogant, but really it was that Harry hadn’t doubted for a second the power of sex. Malfoy had gone without for years, and the opportunity for more, particularly with a partner who knew his issues and was willing to work with them, would seem irresistible. Harry certainly would have caved in an instant.

Interestingly, for some mysterious reason, Malfoy’s recalcitrance immediately clarified Harry’s own mixed feelings.

“No. I said no. It’s a two letter word denoting refusal,” Malfoy said. “I realize it isn’t something that you hear all that often, being the Savior and all, but as it comes up fairly frequently in adult conversation, you should familiarize yourself with it.”

“That’s not going to work,” Harry said, determined not to let Malfoy anger him into retreating or second-guessing his decision (for the hundredth time). “You’re not going to distract me into storming off. We’re going to talk about this thing we’ve got going on between us. And I won’t let you deny that there is something going on.”

“I let you tie me up and suck my cock. That does not in any way constitute a relationship.”

“If you don’t want me to suck you again, right here, you should watch how you phrase things,” Harry said helpfully. "Because that was hot."

Malfoy let out an angry hiss. “This isn’t good for either of us. It was a mistake, Potter. It’s easy enough to let it go—”

“I don’t think that’s the way of it,” Harry said, suddenly angry. He got up and went down to the podium, skirting around the desk, and watching with no small amount of pleasure as Malfoy frowned and took a careful step backwards, maintaining the space between them. “You see, I’ve been going back and forth on this thing for a while now, and I can understand why you’d be worried. Really, I can. And maybe it was a mistake, but it happened and it made an impact. It won’t be easy to let it go. Not for me or you.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said quietly. “You left work in the middle of the day for sex with a former Death Eater. And I…I let you. This is not something I can take lightly. I can’t get wrapped up in this. I have to keep _control_ , but you just swan in…”

“First, I don’t swan. Second, you’re going to keep control,” Harry said firmly, “That’s not something I want to interrupt or ruin for you. I’m on board with it: control belongs to Malfoy—check and double check. _Except_ when we fuck. Then you’ll give it to me, just for a while, until you’ve had a chance to rest and shuck some of that loneliness and regroup. And then, when we’re done, I’ll give the control back to you.”

Malfoy swallowed, his gaze suddenly as fragile and vulnerable as a bruise. He spoke softly, sounding impossibly young and uncertain. “Potter…what are you doing?”

Harry struggled to put into words something that he could barely understand himself. “No one can hold on forever. Eventually you’re going to need a respite. And I want to be the one to provide it.”

 _Because_ , he added silently, _if you’re so desperate that you’ll let someone you think of as your worst enemy do these things to you, you might pick someone who will hurt you, really hurt you, if I’m not there._

He did not like the idea of a frightened, vulnerable Malfoy tied up at the whim of some stranger who didn’t know about his issues. Or worse, maybe he would even have the bad luck to run into someone who would love to humiliate or harm a former Death Eater. The thought of what someone vicious might do once Malfoy was naked and restrained made him sick. No, it had to be Harry.

“Let me prove it to you, Malfoy. I’ve been thinking about ways I could help you. I did some research.”

“Research?” Malfoy’s brow creased. “Into what?”

“Into the kind of things you might need. I’m got more to look into as well. Well, not pictures, because wow, but I’m going to find diagrams maybe.”

Malfoy looked completely bewildered. “Diagrams of _what_? What the fuck are you talking about, Potter?”

“I’m going to tie you up,” Harry said, and yes, that was his voice dropping an octave as he said it, and yes, that was Malfoy’s lean body jerking slightly as if the sound and meaning of it all had done something for him. “I can’t begin to understand why you’ve been giving _me_ the power here, but I want you to know that I’m not going to abuse it. I’ll help you feel free, Malfoy, and I’ll take care of you when you’re defenseless, and you’ll be safe with me.”

Malfoy’s lips trembled. His gaze kept darting over Harry’s shoulder toward the door. He seemed not unlike a trapped bird that had already exhausted itself trying to fly away. Tired of fighting, but too frightened to yield. Harry immediately turned and cast a locking charm on the door.

“See?” He eased another step closer. “I’m not out to make this harder for you.”

“No,” he whispered. “You’re not…it’s not like that. I don’t…” He stalled, turning in place restlessly and pressing a hand against the wall as if to help him keep his balance. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m a grown man. I can always just go home. I can always just go home. I'm fine there, at home.”

“I know,” Harry said quickly. He wondered if that repeated phrase was a coping skill of some sort. “I don’t mean take care of you like that. I mean…it’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it? Years, I’m guessing, since you were able to just be with someone, right?

Malfoy’s eyes went again to the door. “I can’t—”

Harry didn’t like the look of Malfoy’s nervousness. Sexual tension and uncertainty he could deal with. Actual anxiety was something else. Harry hadn’t mean to get so deeply into it while they were still at the Ministry, not when Malfoy was so sensitive to his professional reputation being put at risk. “All right,” he said. “We’re not doing this here. This isn’t good for you. Let me come over. We can talk about it with more privacy after I get off work.”

Malfoy sighed, a sound that made Harry’s chest ache a little, because gratitude and reluctance and worry all warred together in it.

“Potter. This is crazy.”

“Please. Give me a chance to explain what I’m thinking, and if it doesn’t do anything for you, then you’re off the hook. But give me a chance.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry stepped closer yet, and even though Malfoy pressed his back against the wall, he didn’t protest. Harry lifted a hand and stroked that elegant throat, feeling Malfoy’s rambunctious pulse beneath his thumb. Malfoy’s hands clutched Harry’s wrist, nails digging in lightly, but he made no move to either push him away or pull him closer. Rather it seemed he needed a port in the storm, a support against which to keep his balance and still the spinning world. After a long moment of this, during which Harry held firm and gazed back steadily, Malfoy’s lids fell closed and a breath shuddered out of him, some of his tension going with it.

“That’s good,” Harry whispered. “You can trust me, Malfoy.”

Harry leaned down slightly and Malfoy, sensing his closeness, made a soft noise torn between desire and panic.

“Easy,” Harry said quietly, reassuring but firm. “The door is locked, and we’re nearly finished.”

After taking a moment to ensure he had an iron hold of his own need, he finally, _finally_ , kissed Malfoy. Barely more than a brush of lips, but a kiss all the same: brutally soft, achingly slow, and tantalizingly brief. He let his tongue trail ever so gently against Malfoy’s lower lip once before he lifted his head. Malfoy stared up at him helplessly.

“Sweet,” Harry murmured, lifting the hand at Malfoy’s throat so that his thumb could brush across that same lip. He ignored the knots in his stomach and asked, “Six all right?”

“Yes,” Malfoy whispered.

*

When the Creature let Itself into the cottage (dropped off in the lane courtesy of the Knight Bus), Harry was curled up on the sofa under an old gray afghan. He was reading the same book that Draco knew he’d been making his way through for weeks now, a dry text about the history of criminal procedure in the Wizarding World, littered with footnotes. A lamp burned over his head, but the rest of the flat was shrouded in early evening shadows.

“Hey,” Harry said, sitting up. His hair had fallen into its normal, adorable disarray. “You were gone a while. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” the Creature replied. It didn’t stop to press a kiss to Harry’s temple as Draco would’ve. It just kept walking down the hall, calling back, “Just got to pop into the loo for a second.”

If Harry thought it odd that the Creature went upstairs to their bedroom bath instead of using the one downstairs, he didn’t say anything. Once shut away behind a closed door, the Creature surveyed Its appearance in the mirror. Webb’s handkerchief had gotten most of the blood off, but some specks remained—not noticeable in the dimness or under a casual look, but if Harry had gotten any closer or took the time to study It, there was no way the flecks would be missed. Swiftly, the Creature changed clothes, tucking the blood-stained ones deep in the hamper and washing up before dressing in a fresh kit.

**This was a needless hassle. We’re going to discuss your magic soon, and once we have, we’ll clean those up.**

_I suppose if I refuse you’ll just threaten Harry again._

The Creature didn’t even bother to respond. It only finished up in the bathroom and headed back downstairs, a smile pasted on Its face. “Did you get a nap?” It asked.

“Yeah, actually, a whole hour. Felt so groggy waking up I nearly went to bed for the night.”

“Why didn’t you?” the Creature asked. “Movie night could’ve waited.”

“No,” Harry said softly. “No more waiting.”

The Creature paused, then leaned in and pressed a quick, slightly awkward kiss to Harry’s cheek. “What are we watching?”

Harry looked at It for a moment as if wondering if It was okay. “Draco,” he murmured. “Are you…”

“I’m fine, Potter,” The Creature said. Only Draco heard the impatience beneath the sincerity.

Harry nodded. “All right. Then prepare yourself for the wonder that is _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_.”

Locked in his tiny bubble of safety deep in his own mind, Draco couldn’t help an exasperated laugh. This was Harry, this wonderful man who had joined Draco in his self-imposed isolation, who had made the choice to accept Draco as he was, flaws and all, and even gone so far as to set up a Muggle telly and DVD player so as to give Draco more of the life existing beyond his solitude. Harry had not always been happy, Draco knew, but he had never pressured him, never punished, never blamed. He had simply supported, eased what he could, and withstood what he couldn’t.

Draco’s anger weakened, splintered, and finally vanished. Whatever was keeping Harry from acting on the changes in Draco’s behavior, it wasn’t a lack of interest or care. He thought he was giving Draco what he needed, Draco was certain of it.

Given that realization, it was impossible for Draco to hold onto his hurt. He was loved, and that was an enormous gift. Draco had not been able to return those sentiments in the past, for all that Harry had deserved otherwise, but he could do this. Eventually Harry would learn the truth, and when that happened, Draco planned to be there.

The Creature heard him, of course It did, but Draco had never been more pleased that It found Draco's determinations beneath Its notice so much of the time. It meant that Draco could make this vow without interruption.

 _I’ll hold on for you, Harry, you stupid, ridiculous bastard,_ Draco thought. _I’ll keep you safe. I'll do what I can. I’ll hold on for you._ Then the part of Draco that remained succumbed to weeping, or at least as much as he could without eyes to tear up or breathing to hitch. Everything boiled over, and he felt at once so grateful for Harry, so lost in his own skin, and so unequal to the task of stopping this monster that all he could do was ache and beg, repeating the words over and over, _I’ll hold on for you, Harry, I’ll hold on for you,_ as if Harry might hear him, as if he might realize that Draco was suffocating in the dark, as if he might recognize the nature of the thing sitting next to him. Again and again Draco thought the phrase, chanted it as a talisman against despair, _I’ll hold on for you, Harry,_ clinging to it as Harry and the Creature made popcorn, as Harry shared his blanket with It, as they awkwardly cuddled against each other and the opening credits began to roll. He thought it as the Creature asked, “What’s a moose and why is it biting people?”

And yes, he thought it even as Harry chuckled and said, “Ah, Draco. I love you.”


	5. It's a Start

As the Knights who say Ni bargained for a shrubbery, Draco crouched in the little cave in his mind and _pushed._

Without rage and pain fueling him it was harder to summon the strength necessary to create the divide between himself and the Creature, so Draco forced himself to re-experience Harry kissing the Creature in the street. The way Harry’s love had made him cautious of pushing Draco too far, how his lips had remained gentle and undemanding, how his eyes had gotten that sharp, intent look that they got whenever his fingertips were on Draco’s skin. He forced himself to remember that the Creature had been the recipient.

Draco could imagine Harry’s thoughts all too easily: _he’s just out of hospital, he’s tired, don’t push, don’t make him think this is the only reason you wanted him to get better, make sure he isn’t on edge before you lean in._ Draco had taught Harry to be this way, to be a tightrope-walker, a man of controlled risk, someone who must always be cautious and judge every choice and shift and movement.

Somewhere along the line, Draco had given Harry the impression that he did not want to be loved. That wasn’t remotely accurate, but Draco had gone out of his way to let the misapprehension remain, allowing himself to be short and cold and even cruel (depending on how much it took to gain compliance) whenever Harry attempted to dig out a larger place for himself in Draco’s life. The chill kept Harry at bay more fully than any number of excuses might have, and it had the added benefit of giving Harry solace because it proved that the fault existed in Draco and not Harry, an absolute truth.

Looked at in one way, he supposed it resembled the con used very effectively by men who didn’t want to stop playing the field even while dating women who had sincere feelings for them. _You’re special, baby, really, it’s me, I’m not good enough for you, I just have to live in the moment and work out some things before I settle down, if I could be with anyone it would be you._ Always horseshit, no matter who spouted it, because even if it was true, it still _used,_ knowingly and callously _._ Draco was very alert to his skill and inclination—he had a gift for using others. His awareness of this and his desire to change it was the source of his betterment, his loneliness, his fears.

He was well aware of the wrongness of his relationship with Harry, of letting the distance remain when Harry so desperately wanted to cross it, but without Harry, Draco sometimes thought he might not have the strength to keep his innate darkness at bay, and this, he reasoned guiltily, made all the difference. The reality wasn’t that Draco didn’t want Harry; Draco couldn’t afford to want anyone, and he allowed Harry to bridge this gap as much as he did only because Harry had demonstrated that he could live within the constraints Draco laid out.

None of it meant that Draco didn’t care about Harry. He had fought tooth and nail to avoid falling in love with him, and it couldn’t be helped that some affection had formed despite his efforts. And he suspected that he cared even more than he’d thought, judging from his jealous reaction to what was undoubtedly a horribly-fish-cold kiss.

Remembering the kiss, however, had its benefits. The attending rage and hurt leant Draco the strength he needed, and seconds later, using instinct more than technique or recollection, Draco _shoved_ with all the power his mind had left.

The divide opened with a wrench, and he had a moment to marvel at the fact that the Creature did not seem to notice, too intent on the film flickering on the telly.

_Spoiler alert, you fucker. I’m going to be the one who destroys you. Somehow._

The Creature did not respond; instead, It laughed at the antics of the knights—with surprisingly real-sounding amusement.

Draco didn’t care. It didn’t know better yet that It had reason to fear.

He held the divide as long as possible, thinking that perhaps he could build up some endurance for the trick. And at the same time, he could make plans.

A few ideas had been building in the back of his mind as they went about their day. Draco had very carefully avoided thinking them, knowing that the Creature, which had taken to ignoring him a great deal of the time, had only to tune back in to hear everything that Draco wanted to keep hidden. But now he had a chance, brief though it may be, and he didn’t intend to waste it.

What was the Creature? Draco had never heard of such a being, although that wasn’t saying much—Draco would’ve loved the opportunity to kick Harry’s round arse right now and point out that a proper Care of Magical Creatures teacher might’ve been able to prepare Draco for this sort of event, maybe even giving him the ability to prevent it. Instead, he’d gotten that oaf Hagrid and his bloody Blast-Ended Skrewts. Harry would certainly hear about it when Draco got free.

Concentrating hard on keeping the divide up between then, Draco considered what he knew so far. It didn’t seem to need a body to live, although that was just guesswork—it was entirely possible that the Creature had been occupying a body down in that sinkhole only to abandon it for Draco’s when the opportunity came. But his vague memories of the possession left him with a surety that the Creature had been sans flesh at that point. Something about the sound of the skittering; it had simply sounded _small._

Alive without a body or not, It had certainly not always been without one, although how long It had occupied someone else was a matter of debate. The Creature had already spoken fluent English when It took Draco over; It had obviously learned that somewhere. It was aware of some things, such as showering daily and the need to cook food before you ate it. And It seemed entirely captivated by new experiences—when It had gone with Harry to the sushi restaurant, It had sampled three different desserts. But in other areas It knew far less. It understood things like magic but had no idea how to cast. Draco had seen something similar to this in the Muggle born students at Hogwarts. They knew about magic by the time they came to school, in a theoretical way, but were unfamiliar with it in a more practical sense. While It had known what a movie was, It had never seen one, and Draco couldn’t imagine many Muggles going without that experience. Plus, It knew a Death Eater. Maybe It had possessed a squib.

A more troublesome fact, though, was that the Creature was smart. It had picked up on subtle social cues, like when It had referred to Harry as Harry and not Potter and everyone had gotten worried, and It was a solid actor. It had certainly fooled Harry. It thought quickly too, as with the squid-breath excuse after the horrid kiss.

Worst of all, It seemed to entirely lack empathy.

On the telly, King Arthur was being told that his father smelled of elderberries. The Creature turned Its head quizzically to one side.

“That’s a bad thing?” It asked, and Harry laughed.

 _That’s a bad thing?_ Draco repeated, making his inner voice high-pitched and thick with mockery, even though he didn’t really get the joke either.

None of those speculations were going to get him anywhere, he decided, growing frustrated. Best to move on to the most important issue. What the hell was the Creature planning?

Although he’d tried not to think of it at the time, Draco knew Bernard Jugson. He’d been at Draco’s initiation ceremony to the Death Eaters, back at the Manor. Draco even had a dim memory of lying on the cold marble floor beside the massive fireplace in the drawing room, his thoughts foggy and distant with the pain radiating up from his left forearm, the Dark Lord looming superciliously above him. Beyond that skeletal robed figure, his Aunt Bellatrix had stood snickering at something the shaggy-haired Jugson had murmured to her. Draco and Jugson had had little contact beyond that. There’d been no real reason to. They had different strengths and were used to the Dark Lord’s purposes differently. Jugson had been a bit of a thug, blood-thirsty and eager to hit first, and he’d been sent on numerous missions into the Muggle world to track down victims. Draco had been ordered to remain at the Manor, more or less at the Dark Lord’s side.

Draco did not know enough about Jugson to understand the reasons for the Creature’s curiosity. Why would a monster previously living in a cave have such an interest in a particular Death Eater on the run? What would It do when it found Jugson? Hurt him? Or help him?

Draco didn’t have much time left with the divide; his mental muscles—so to speak—were beginning to fail, so he started thinking about how best to contact Harry. There was hope in this ability to get some privacy, although it didn’t do him much good as far as controlling his own body went. The Creature still had all the power there, and It did not need to create a divide to keep Draco from overhearing Its thoughts—It had privacy as a default. And Draco already knew he would need to be careful. If the Creature caught him trying to get control, It might make good on Its threat to hurt Harry.

The only time it might be possible to take control without alerting the Creature was, obviously, when It slept. The problem was that whenever the Creature drifted off, Draco did as well, sucked into the realm of sleep against his will. He’d found it a rather frightening sensation the first few times, actually, not unlike the feeling he’d gotten when he’d fallen into the sinkhole in the forest.

Draco wondered just what would happen if the Creature should fall asleep while Draco had the divide open.

Then his strength gave out, the divide shuddered and closed, and exhaustion swept him into the dark.

*

After kissing Malfoy in the Ministry conference room and wheedling a stay of execution for their…well, whatever it was they were doing, Harry returned to his office. He took a thoughtful moment to water Ficus Five, the latest in a long line of green plants bestowed on him by Hermione, who found his office depressing. He’d killed the first four ficuses over the last six years, and this one probably didn’t have much longer, judging from the limp, yellow leaves and sagging branches. Everything about the thing smacked of struggling life, had done for weeks, actually, but the thing never followed through on the threat. It just sat there looking pathetic. Harry found this a bit passive-aggressive, and decided that he did not like Ficus Five nearly as much as Ficus Four, which had kicked the bucket in a very straightforward, uncomplaining manner. With a heavy sigh, he made a mental note to tell Hermione not to bother replacing this one. He was starting to feel like a serial killer.

Harry sank into his chair, which squealed loudly, being old and habitually offended. Taking up his quill, he tried to focus on paperwork—Merlin knew he had plenty. If there was one thing that the Wizarding World and the Muggle worlds had in common, it was a firm belief in the necessity of documentation in triplicate. As Head Auror Marrow often admonished, _if it isn’t documented, it didn’t happen._

So he dug into the pile on the corner of his desk and came up Ministry Form 4F2—Request for Additional Support in Adjunctive Investigation, Post-Primary Arrest. Box 1—Case Number. Harry sighed and started scrawling.

He’d made a fairly substantial dent in his pile when Ron slumped in without knocking, arms laden with Styrofoam containers and two cans of soda.

“I brought lunch,” he said, then continued, quite bad-temperedly, “and yes, before you point it out, it is nearly four, but my stomach waits for no man.”

That was not news to Harry in the least, and he put his paperwork aside without so much as a grimace of reluctance. He took his serving and popped open the lid to reveal take-away curry, inhaling the scents of garlic, onion, and cumin. Ron did likewise, sitting opposite.

“Is this turkey?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” Ron answered sloppily, mouth already packed with orange sauce.

“Good man,” Harry replied, and opened a baggie of plastic silverware. “Is this about work or Hermione?”

Ron just scowled, which was an answer in and of itself, Harry knew.

“I didn’t think you two saw enough of each other to fight,” Harry said.

“We don’t. That’s why it’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think, that she spends what little time we have together defending that little toe rag, Malfoy?”

Harry nearly choked on a bite of curry, and Ron watched with faint worry as Harry pounded a fist against his chest and coughed.

“All right, mate?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, taking a quick sip of coke. “Yeah, of course. Just taken aback, is all. You know, about you and Hermione fighting about…about Malfoy. That’s…what’s that about?”

Ron shrugged, stuffing his face only to try to explain as he chewed. Mostly Harry heard garbled sounds, but he’d been speaking Hungry Ron language for more than fifteen years now; he could make sense of just about anything at this point.

“I mentioned that the potions seminar would be a lot more interesting if someone other than Malfoy was teaching it and how the really great thing about being out of school is that we don’t have to see his pointy face anymore. Except we do. And then she got all stiff and reasonable like she does.”

“What about? Specifically?” Harry spoke carefully, well aware that he couldn’t say anything that might breech either Hermione’s professional responsibilities or the fact that Malfoy was seeing someone for anxiety. It hadn’t occurred to him to consider what to tell Ron if this thing with Malfoy continued, and suddenly he felt stupid for that.

Ron scowled at his spork. “She said I was hung up on the past and that maybe now that we were adults we should stop letting old grudges color our mature something-or-others.”

Harry studied his best friend, taking another bite of turkey curry to give himself time to think. Finally, he said, “She could have an idea, there.”

Ron spoke over him. “Then I said that nearly poisoning me with a bottle of mead wasn’t an old grudge so much as attempted murder, but she was all twitchy and weird about it. She started talking about some old English Muggle poet and the nature of humanity erring and forgiveness being next to godliness or something, and I don’t know. But it all comes down to Hermione being squarely in the ‘let’s all forgive Malfoy and pretend he isn’t an enormous git’ camp and I just wanted to shake her. The prick tried to kill me. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and now my brother is scarred. You don’t just forgive that.”

Harry felt mildly sick to his stomach. It wasn’t that he’d _forgotten_ that Malfoy had done these things, exactly. It was more that the Malfoy of today, who wore his professionalism as well-tailored as his suits, the Robot Malfoy who approached Harry like a Gryffindor to ease the tension between them and cleaned silver to manage his anxiety and thrust helplessly against Harry’s thigh because the only way he could come was if he could forget about the horrid things he’d done in the past… _this_ Malfoy wasn’t the same Malfoy who had put poison in a bottle and delivered it to an innocent or repaired a vanishing cabinet. Well, he _was_ , but he _wasn’t_. Harry and Hermione knew this, because they had both gotten to know Robot Malfoy a bit better, to see how much he’d come to regret his actions and how desperate he was to avoid re-making those mistakes, but Harry couldn’t say any of that. Not without explaining the whole Malfoy-against-the-wall-coming-while-writhing-against-Harry’s-thigh thing, which had been brutally hot, for certain, but which Harry rather doubted Ron would accept as reason enough for betrayal.

“Yeah,” Harry said finally.

“Strangely, my girlfriend of almost seven years was unmoved by my whole argument of ‘we shouldn’t like him because he tried to kill me.’ She just kept on about how she was simply saying that my grudge was only making my work life difficult and if I gave him a chance to apologize it would ease the tension, and I said that apologies were for when you forgot to call on someone’s birthday, not when you tried to kill someone. Why’s she so keen on making things better for that bastard than me?”

Harry thought that Hermione’s intentions had really been to help Ron find a way to avoid being miserable at work, rather than helping make life easier for Malfoy. He also sincerely doubted Hermione liked Malfoy as a person; she was simply too mature and too career-oriented not to take Malfoy’s treatment and interests to heart. In short, this was all a fuck-up that could be easily cleared up if only he could be honest.

“Then, get a load of this, I asked why she cared so much, and she said didn’t want to talk about it. I asked her again, and she just said it was none of my business and why couldn’t I respect her boundaries and a bunch of nonsense about privacy and trust and Merlin, Harry, I think maybe she’s fucking Malfoy.”

“What?” Harry jerked back in his seat, a bite of turkey curry hanging half out of his mouth, staring at Ron, who had lost all of his anger and now sat staring miserably at his half-eaten lunch.

“She got weird, Harry. She wouldn’t talk about it, and then she got defensive, and I asked if she’d seen him at St. Mungo’s again since the day when he apologized to her and she just got mad and yelled at me and left to go to work an hour early. It’s not like she doesn’t have the opportunity. She’s at the hospital all the time and when she is home she’s either sleeping or studying, and we’re kind of distant for it lately—you’ve seen what her schedule is like. Half the time I don’t know if she’s coming or going and I wouldn’t know if she was going to the hospital or someplace else…”

“She’s not fucking Malfoy,” Harry said flatly.

“How do you know?” Ron asked, not looking up.

 _Because I am. Wait, don’t say that._ Harry cleared his throat, wanting this conversation to be over immediately, before something slipped out. Merlin, that would be a nightmare. He could already imagine Ron’s red-faced response. Then he realized Ron was waiting for an answer and he jumped desperately for something reassuring that would not force him to rely on the truth. “Because she’s Hermione and she would never, ever cheat on you,” he said eventually.

Ha, he thought, feeling like he’d managed something great. Get around that one.

Ron shrugged. “Everyone thinks that about the people they love. But people cheat all the time.”

Harry bit his lip. Not so great. “It’s just jealousy you’re feeling. You’re prone to it, you’ve got to admit. And you’ve never been right so far.”

“She snogged Krum!”

“Yeah, but that’s Krum,” Harry said hurriedly. “I’d snog Krum. You’re not really up against that sort of, um, impressiveness this time. Malfoy’s not even that good at Quidditch. I can beat him, you know.”

“Is he, ahem, good-looking, do you think?”

“Krum?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Malfoy!”

“Malfoy?” Harry blinked, wondering what Ron would do if Harry just got up and ran away. He cleared his throat again, scrambling for an answer. “Why the hell are you asking me?”

“You’re, ah, you know.” Ron waved his hand vaguely in Harry’s direction. Harry rolled his eyes. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were the only people who knew of Harry’s orientation. Everyone except Ron was completely comfortable with it. Ron was perfectly fine until the subject came up, and then there was always awkwardness. Not anger or judgment or disapproval. Just awkwardness. Harry couldn’t help a little exasperation with his best mate sometimes, but he always found a well of patience whenever things got tense, because Ron tried. He tried so hard that it was painful.

“The word is gay,” Harry said dryly, but his panic hadn’t faded, mostly because this conversation would not fucking end.

“Yeah, that. And you know how to judge that sort of thing.”

“Men and women don’t look for the same things, necessarily,” Harry said, considering pretending that he’d heard someone in the hallway call his name. “So I couldn’t really…”

“Is he, Harry?” Ron peered at him desperately. “I’m ginger, for crying out loud. Maybe the pointy face just isn’t enough of a drawback to keep me one-up on him.”

“He’s not really so pointy anymore,” Harry said without thinking, then blinked and added, “he’s slender, though. Girls maybe don’t like that in a guy. I mean, I don’t…uh, mind it, because it’s a fit sort of slender, but then, you know, gay and all. But still, um, not pointy.”

“Fine,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “The toe rag is officially rounded.”

Harry pictured sharp cheekbones, the perfect blade of a nose, arched eyebrows, and said, “Not sure that’s accurate either. I’d say—” he nearly added _elegant,_ but Ron fortunately interrupted.

“This isn’t helping.”

“Sorry.”

“Why would she defend him?”

Now they were coming to the core of it; Harry doubted Ron really thought that Hermione was cheating on him—with Malfoy, no less—but the fact that her confidentiality requirements had kept her from being more straightforward about her reasons for not wanting to bad-mouth Malfoy had definitely hurt his feelings. Harry felt a twinge of guilt. Being friends and not lovers, Ron probably didn’t have a _right,_ per se, to approve of Harry’s partners, but that didn’t keep Harry from being acutely aware of the fact that he was doing something that would hurt his best mate keenly. Far more than this little tiff between his friends had, as this crap about Hermione was patently stupid, and Harry actually _was_ fucking Malfoy.

Harry didn’t know what to say. He considered just telling Ron that Hermione was occasionally treating Malfoy for anxiety (a small betrayal compared to the whole outing Malfoy by saying he was fucking him thing) but then he’d have to explain how he knew that. He sat for a moment, then quietly said, “I don’t know. But I trust Hermione. And you should too, she’s earned it. Even if she can’t say why.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. I know you’re right. She wouldn’t cheat.” He played with his food for moment, his spork stained orange from the sauce even after he’d licked it clean. Then he sat back in his chair, lines of weariness forming at the outer corners of his eyes. “You’re a good friend, Harry.”

Harry felt sick. _I’m going to hell._

*

After the movie ended, Harry set some dishes to wash in the sink and started thinking about going to bed. Marrow had offered him more time off, but Harry thought he should probably go in first thing in the morning now that Draco was feeling better. Part of him hated the idea; the small voice inside that constantly reminded him of how quickly life could turn shitty had gotten louder since the accident.

Fear and insecurity were warring beneath his skin, and the result was nights spent with Harry staring at Draco while he slept, touching his fingers and face to check for warmth, listening for the soft susurrus of his breathing. That frightened part of him that had spent a lifetime waiting for Fate to drop the other shoe would’ve been happier to never go back to work. If Draco was vulnerable (and he obviously was) then Harry could never leave him alone, because in those instants, life might happen.

But in the productive, sane, grown-up version of things, Harry was crap at being idle. He was okay with _alone,_ but alone and bored was another story altogether. This happened occasionally on the rare day when Harry’s shifts gave him a weekday off but Draco still had potions due.

Since Draco worked at home, this often meant that a task-less Harry had nothing to do and no one to keep him entertained. Harry had a hard time kicking loose around the house without bugging Draco and often resorted to undertaking helpful projects, like rehanging the towel bar (proof that bathroom sex could be quite dangerous) or fixing a loose porch step, only to realize half-way through either that a) he was not adequately prepared for the job either in tools or education or b) it was uninteresting and stupid and he didn’t want to do it anymore. Either way, at some point he would end up slumped on the sofa, curiously exhausted from drinking half of the afternoon away while watching telenovelas and petting the stray cat that deigned to wander inside from time to time. By dinnertime, Harry would be hungry and querulous and overly dramatic after hours of watching Sandra and Maria argue about why Diego shouldn’t have shot his twin sister.

Draco, on the other hand, would spend the day brewing in the most precise, astute, and demanding manner possible, a mind-frame that was not conducive to relationship bliss, and would sometimes even send up notes that said lovely things like _Kindly stop tromping around on the hardwood floors with your fat feet in those abhorrent trainers. I can’t think with the sheer noise_. _You sound like a hippogriff._ On regular weekdays, this attitude wasn’t a problem, because Draco finished religiously at five p.m. and decompressed with a hot shower before Harry got home. On vacation days, however, when Harry jumped on him the second he emerged from the basement, the whole combination of boredom and soap operas and perfect potions and loud trainers guaranteed a row by bedtime.

No, Harry decided. Best to get his arse back to work. If he’d learned anything over two years, it was that Draco could only withstand a modicum of clinginess before striking out with vitriol, and staying home would definitely count as clingy.

As he cast scouring charms on the counters and stovetop, Harry heard Draco head upstairs. With half an ear he listened vaguely to the footsteps moving overhead, tracing Draco’s progress from the hall into the bathroom. The bathroom tap ran; he was brushing his teeth. Draco liked a lot of toothpaste and usually worked up a great deal of foam—Harry had once joked that Draco was so excited at the thought of sex with Harry that he was frothing at the mouth, a comment that had not gone over very well and so had not been repeated aloud, but which Harry still sometimes thought to himself. He listened as Draco washed his face, then shut the door to pee. After the toilet flushed and the sink ran again for hand-washing, Harry heard Draco head to the bedroom. There was quiet for a moment, but then the sound of the armoire opening and closing.

Draco was undressing.

Harry couldn’t help imagining those long, clever fingers lifting the hem of the Muggle tee shirt, revealing smooth, pale skin. Draco had a fucking amazing body; those suits had delivered on their promises. Forearms corded with muscle and veins from days spent gardening and brewing and hours spent on the small work of chopping and dicing. Biceps and shoulders well defined from carting heavy cauldrons and crates of ingredients, phials, and shipments of completed potions, his back proud and straight despite years of standing at a worktable. Anyone else would hunch by the end of the day, but Draco never did. Harry had thought it the very first time he’d seen Draco brew, that Draco’s spine was abnormally straight. No one had posture that good.

Draco’s legs and bum were fantastic as well, but those were the result of daily runs on the charmed running platform he owned. Exercise helped his stress levels considerably, and as with all the other tasks that managed his condition, Draco followed his regimen flawlessly.

All of this meant that Draco without clothes was something worth being present for.

Harry’s cock approved the image as well.

Kitchen was clean enough, he decided.

But by the time he’d hurried through his own tooth-brushing, face-washing, and peeing, Draco’s bedside lamp was off and the slow, even rise and fall of his chest told Harry that he’d missed his window.

Trying not to be disappointed and telling his overeager cock to calm the fuck down, Harry climbed into bed. They didn’t cuddle at night; whenever Harry tried (which was extremely rare these days, as even Harry’s pigheadedness had limits), Draco always got this look on his face like Harry had stepped in something foul and then tracked it into the house. So he lay in the dark, looking up at the ceiling, and reminded himself that it was Draco’s first day out of hospital. Obviously he was really tired—too tired even to stay awake long enough to say good-night. And yeah, it had been more than a week since they’d had sex, but Harry could always jerk off in the shower in the morning. He didn’t want to be the kind of partner who put pressure on a lover out of selfishness and, to be honest, sheer horniness.

That wasn’t the source of his turbulence anyway, not really. It was just that Draco’s health still didn’t quite feel real, and he suspected it would remain that way until Harry had the opportunity to breathe in Draco’s scent and feel that strong, limber body against his own, to press his lips against the undefended nape of Draco’s neck and taste sweat and sex on that pale skin, to rest his ear against Draco’s sternum and hear the reassuring thud of his heartbeat, vivid and stubborn and real.

*

Draco came back to himself with a start. It took him several long seconds to make sense of what was going on; at first he caught only a lot of noise and a haze and confusion. Then sight snapped into place, and sound clarified shortly thereafter, and Draco realized he was in a very familiar situation indeed.

He was in the kitchen at their cottage and Harry was yelling.

“—at what point did you think that was okay?”

 **It’s about time you returned.** The Creature aimed that thought squarely at Draco, Its mental voice annoyed and hard. **Your boyfriend is irrational and I’ve no idea what set him off or how to shut him up. It’s becoming very tiresome. Fix this now.**

_What did you do to him?_

**Nothing. And stop sounding angry on his behalf. I did nothing wrong.**

Draco sighed inwardly. _What is he complaining about, then?_

**He says that leaving before he woke up and being gone for eleven hours without leaving a note was inconsiderate. I’ve explained to him that he is neither my parent nor my employer, but he seems to be under the impression that I am beholden to him in some manner.**

Draco nearly snorted. Harry was a pushover in a lot of ways when it came to relationships; he responded well to manipulation, honest affection made him generous and forgiving, and guilt never failed to make him malleable. He did, however, have a truly nasty temper, and if he felt he was being mistreated in any real way, he could dig in his heels and hold a grudge for long days of echoing silence.

Compared to Draco’s countless demands and quirks (Harry no doubt felt he faced a minefield half the time), Harry had a distinctly short list of pet peeves. Those he did possess, however, were enormously sensitive. And one of them—perhaps the biggest—was that Harry could not handle being kept in the dark. He needed to _know._

Considering that Draco rarely left the house at all, for him to disappear for eleven hours without word would’ve really freaked Harry out. Draco could see it in those burning green eyes, the impatient posture, the hands that shook as they shoved back the fringe of his unruly black mop.

_He’s not being irrational. You scared him. He needs reassurance. Tell him you’re sorry._

**This better work. He is not useful to me in this state.**

Draco couldn’t help the slight tinge of panic that colored his thoughts. _It will work. Say you’re sorry._

The Creature was not impressed by this advice and gave a mental eye roll, but obeyed.

_Now say that you should’ve left a note, but you were feeling brave. For just a few minutes you thought maybe you could go out. Not to do something, but just because you could._

The Creature parroted this and Draco could already see that Harry was listening. Resentfully and angrily, but listening all the same. Some of his tension began to fade.

_Tell him you’d forgotten what it felt like. And you were scared it would go away so you had to go, right then, and in all the rush you forgot._

Once this had been said, Harry shook his head. “Eleven fucking hours, Draco. In all that time it never came to you that I would be scared shitless?”

“Obviously not or I would’ve let you know,” the Creature said, not waiting for Draco to prompt him. “I would not purposely scare you, Potter.”

Harry glared at It. “What were you even doing?”

“That’s not your concern.”

Draco would’ve winced if he’d been able to. _Well, that’s the worst fucking thing you could’ve said._

And as if Harry were attempting to prove that Draco knew him well, he immediately yelled, “Fuck, Draco, are we still here? It’s been two goddamn years, and we’re still playing this game where you do everything you can to keep me at arm’s length? I am so sick of this paranoid need of yours to constantly put me in my place—which, even though we live together, seems to be as far away from you as fucking possible. I’m so tired of this.”

The Creature seemed taken aback—if not remotely frightened—by both the volume and the venom. **Is he going to hit us?**

_No. Don’t be stupid. He would never._

**He looks rather demented at the moment.**

_That’s because he’s spent a large part of his life being manipulated by the secrets and lies of adults for the purposes of becoming a sacrificial lamb to save the Wizarding World, and you hiding things triggers those feelings of resentment and anger,_ Draco thought bitterly. _I’ve learned to tread very carefully around this and you’re tracking mud all through it right now._

 **What do I say?** The Creature’s tone was the very epitome of put-upon.

_This is going to be ugly no matter how you swing it. We’re going to have to lie, and you’d better prepare to crawl._

Even as Draco spelled out exactly what the Creature should say to ease Harry’s anger, hurt and residual fear, weaving a story of getting lost in a new novel at the library, wandering through parks, and eating in a café, he couldn’t help wondering just what he’d really missed by being out for as long as he had. Far more disturbing than that was the fact that he’d lost so _much_ time. He’d been unconscious—or the possessed equivalent of it anyway—for nearly twenty-four hours. Night had fallen again. That was far longer than the time before, although he had to admit that he’d kept up the divide for a far more substantial period of time as well. Still, it shook him.

What the hell had the Creature been doing for the last eleven hours? Did Draco have more bloody clothes hidden in his hamper?

Draco could’ve kicked himself now for opening the divide for so long the evening before, but he carefully avoided thinking too much about this. He couldn’t afford to tip the Creature off.

Twenty minutes later, the Creature had managed to repeat all of Draco’s responses with enough manufactured remorse that Harry had moved from his yelling phase to his sullen resentment phase. He stalked out of the kitchen and up to bed with barely a word, leaving Draco and the Creature sitting at the table.

 _That’s as good as it’s going to get tonight. If you’re apologetic and_ _offer to do nice things to prove you’re sorry, we’ve got about a day of this._

The Creature was quiet for a long moment. Then: **You know him very well.**

_I should hope so. We’ve been together for two years._

**What is that like? To know someone that well?**

Surprised, Draco didn’t immediately know how to answer that question. He thought about it for some time, then finally offered, _comforting. Safe._ He paused again, then added, _magical._

*

Harry arrived at Malfoy’s little cottage a few minutes before six, just as afternoon yielded to evening and swathed the world in navy. He stood uncertainly on the stoop for a moment, looking over the lush, colorful planters and neatly-ordered flower beds in the yard around him. Guilt sat heavily in his gut after his late lunch with Ron; he could still see the offense and hurt on his best friend’s face as they discussed Malfoy and Hermione, and Harry couldn’t shake the knowledge that what he was doing would be even worse.

But when Goober opened the door and bade him welcome, Harry went in.


	6. The Words of the Dying

As Malfoy’s house elf led Harry down the hall toward the sitting room, a low thrumming began in his gut—desire. He’d told Malfoy this afternoon at the Ministry that he only wanted to talk, something he’d meant at the time, but that changed as soon as he entered the little cottage. This only amplified the guilt he felt at being here, at knowing what this would do to his friendship with Ron, but Harry was grateful all the same, because it gave him something else to focus on. Brave Gryffindor that he was, the lust let him lie to himself, at least for a while, about what this choice would likely cost him.

Malfoy sat reading in the glow of a single candelabrum at one end of the sofa, a steaming cup of tea resting in a saucer on the coffee table before him. Malfoy’s only concession to being at home was that he’d taken off his suit jacket; the wool-blend waistcoat and silk tie remained and he still wore his shiny black lace ups. Even his silver cufflinks remained in place. He looked every inch the young professional deep in thought; his brow lightly furrowed in concentration, his expression distantly interested in the words on the page—but his fingers had tightened on the binding of the journal until the nail beds had whitened.

“Privacy, Goober,” Harry said, and though his words came out too loud in the quiet room, Malfoy didn’t jump. He’d definitely noted Harry’s arrival. The elf hesitated, but Malfoy nodded, and a second later they were alone.

Malfoy was in full Robot mode as he began to speak—stilted, polite, distant. “Potter, I think we’re right to take a second look at—”

That was as far as Malfoy got—he broke off when he saw Harry’s face. That didn’t surprise Harry in the least. He felt reckless and determined and full of grief at once, angry at Malfoy for making Harry so desperate to take what he wanted while loathing himself for wanting it in the first place.

“You look upset,” Malfoy said finally.

“I’m a little on edge.”

“Any particular reason?”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Being here was enough of a betrayal; he wouldn’t compound it by breaking Ron’s confidence to explain the whole thing. “None that concern you. If it’s all right, I’d like to go first. It might change what you have to say.”

“Doubtful,” Malfoy said, but made a _go ahead_ gesture with one hand.

“I want you,” Harry said flatly, and felt a little appalled at himself for thinking the pink on Malfoy’s cheekbones appealing.

“There are consequences—” Malfoy began.

“I want you,” he repeated, talking right over the other man, “badly enough that none of the likely consequences are keeping me from being here. I’ve been waffling back and forth because you’re right, this is crap and stupid and destructive, but I’m thinking about it all the time despite the fact that it’s crap and stupid and destructive, and I’m _here,_ even knowing all of that, I’m here. Since I can’t seem to choose otherwise, I’ve got some suggestions to minimize the impact.”

Malfoy’s face scrunched up, like he’d smelled something distasteful, and Harry wasn’t sure if that was because of _what_ he’d just confessed or the sloppy and emotional way he’d confessed it. But no protests came. Harry took that as a sign (of something, anyway) and continued.

“First, we won’t do anything at work. You can be Robot Malfoy until the cows come home. I don’t fancy making your brain explode, truly.”

Malfoy squinted, as if he thought clarity of vision might end his confusion. “I don’t know what part of that to…why are you talking about cows? And a robot? What the hell is a robot?”

“I mean that you’re not you at work,” Harry explained. “Shit, you’re barely you when you’re not at work.”

Malfoy’s jaw worked once. “And what bloody cows are you talking about?”

Harry exhaled hard. “Forget the cows. It’s not about the damn cows. I mean that we won’t do anything at work, all right? That’s all I meant.”

When Malfoy only watched him sullenly, Harry continued. “Two, we keep it quiet. No friends, no family. No dinner parties or dates in public, no pressure or obligations. Finally, I promise that I will do everything I can to address and minimize any anxiety you might feel regarding this shithole we’re getting into right here.”

“Your romantic nature is showing,” Malfoy pointed out snidely. “Also, your seduction technique wouldn’t work on a dog, let alone someone with standards.”

“Then tell me to go,” Harry said, and waited.

Malfoy heaved one breath, then two, and apparently decided there was something fascinating on the ceiling, because he tipped his head back to stare for a long minute. After what felt like ages, he leveled a steady look at Harry. “Two more concessions. One, this is just sex. No lovey-dovey crap, no more sweet words. If you call me anything but Malfoy you’re going to find out how creative I can be in a way that you will not enjoy, and…”

Malfoy turned slightly away and sighed. “Merlin, do you hear me? This is exactly why…Five minutes in your presence and I’m threatening to humiliate or harm you. Fuck, Potter, I can’t afford you.”

Harry scratched a hand over his chin as he thought; his five o’clock shadow was coming in itchy. “Okay. Look, this will give me a chance to practice helping with your anxiety. What should I do when something like this comes up?”

“I’m not going to help you talk me into this,” Malfoy said.

“That’s not what I’m doing, arsehole. I don’t want to fuck anything up if you get all freaked out.”

“'Freaked out.' That’s a great way to put it. Thank you for that.”

“I’ll call it whatever you want, but if you won’t tell me the terminology, 'freaked out' is what you get.”

“They’re panic attacks,” Malfoy snapped. “That’s what they’re called. And we’re not talking about this. I can take care of myself.”

“Right. Okay, then. You have lube?” Harry asked, and Malfoy blanched. He set his reading aside and eased to his feet, right hand going loose as if he expected to need his wand. It pissed Harry off.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you enormous prat. You know that. But you also know what’s going to happen here. I’ll push and you’ll resist, we’ll spend half the night yelling at each other, and then we’ll end up fucking anyway, so all I’m doing is skipping over a bunch of words that we wouldn’t even mean.”

Malfoy’s mouth tightened. “I would mean them.”

“No, you wouldn’t. If you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have already been with me twice and you would’ve told Goober not to let me in. Whatever the reasons, we’re not done yet.”

Malfoy’s gaze slid away and a muscle in his jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth. “How are the Weasleys going to take this?”

That struck home, deep in the heart of Harry’s guilt, but he ignored the pang and stalked forward. Malfoy held his ground but shifted his weight, slipping into a better position from which to duel. Harry ignored that too, instead leaning down and doing as he’d wanted for what seemed a very long time now.

He kissed the bloody hell out of Malfoy.

He wasn’t sure what was worse about the experience: the way that hot, yielding mouth made his heart pound painfully in his chest, or the fact that the kiss was really good, scary good, mind-blowingly good. That didn’t assuage any of his aggravation at all. If anything, it made Harry angrier, because kissing Malfoy was fucking irresistible, and that meant Harry was stuck.

There were two unavoidable truths. One, he wanted Malfoy badly enough that he wasn’t going anywhere. Two, this was going to fuck up his life.

He dug his fingers into the firm muscles of Malfoy’s back and squeezed, pulling him impossibly close, so close he could feel the flat panes of the other man’s chest, the hard bones of his pelvis, the taut line of his belly. Judging from the small hiss Malfoy gave, it had surprised him, maybe even annoyed him, but part of Harry didn’t mind that. It was Malfoy’s fault that Harry wanted him, after all. It was Malfoy’s fault that Harry would lose so much.

So it was Malfoy who paid, whose head fell back under the onslaught of a kiss that went on and on and on, burning and vicious and needy, a mixture of clinging lips and sharp teeth and demanding tongues. Malfoy who moaned and let himself be crushed between Harry and the wall. He didn’t complain when Harry yanked at his waistcoat and buttons pinged, and he only shuddered when Harry did the same with his shirt, but that might have been more about the fact that Harry had just abandoned his mouth to lick at the thundering pulse in his throat. Harry shoved fabric down, yanking at arms to free them and opening both of their belts.

“Do you have lube?” Harry asked again.

Malfoy hesitated the barest instant before shaking his head. Harry got the distinct impression he was lying. This pissed him off even more.

So he shoved Malfoy through the door of the sitting room into the kitchen and took out his wand. With one hand on Malfoy’s elbow to keep him still, Harry made quick work of closing the curtains and, after a heartbeat of thought, conjuring a thick pole that rose from the center of the heavy wooden table. With a final gesture, he conjured silvery ropes—strong but not coarse.

“Take your shoes and socks off,” Harry said, and began to uncoil the ropes as he watched Malfoy obey with uncertain fingers.

“This is a bad idea,” Malfoy said, sounding resigned, straightening up and wriggling his bare toes.

“Duly noted. Now shut up and bend over the table.”

Malfoy didn’t. Instead, he slowly began to unbutton his trousers, eyes on Harry’s, his message as clear as if he’d spoken it.

_I’ll do as I please._

Malfoy didn’t mean it as a challenge. He was stating a fact. Any power Harry had was power that Malfoy was _giving_ to him, and if Malfoy obeyed, it was because he chose to, and for no other reason.

Harry held his gaze, let Malfoy know what Harry knew, which was that Harry wanted him, in large part, for his refusal to let Harry master him. The ropes weren’t about that, and Harry nodded, acknowledging it.

Malfoy dropped his trousers and stepped out with an economical motion. He stood for a moment, letting Harry look his fill—a friendly sort of gesture that Harry appreciated; naked Malfoy was well worth the time. He itched to reach out and touch but couldn’t decide where to start—the well-defined pectorals, peaked with small, pebbled nipples? The pretty, unexpected sprinkling of light freckles dotting the curve of his left hipbone or the teasing line of hair that drew the eye downward to the rosy, half-hard cock? Malfoy even had nice feet, long and strong, the feet of a runner, and if Harry was thinking these sorts of ludicrous things, it was high time he punched himself in the face. For fuck’s sake.

Harry walked forward on legs that wanted to run, gently stroked a firm bicep with hands that wanted to clench, and directed Malfoy toward the table with a soft gesture when he wanted to shove.

“Bend over,” he whispered, directly into the shell of Malfoy’s ear, and grinned when he felt the corresponding shiver.

Malfoy did so. The height of the table put the edge right in the crease of his thighs; Harry would have to be careful not to push him forward or risk injuring him. Malfoy stretched his arms over his head without waiting for Harry to ask, and it was pretty, entirely too pretty to resist, not that he particularly wanted to. Malfoy waited, still and silent, as Harry bound him to the iron pole, the fact that his back rose and fell with quick breaths the only sign that any of this made an impact. The rope was charmed so it wouldn’t catch on Malfoy’s fine skin, so Harry drew it tight, leaving only enough play that Malfoy could bend his elbows about ten degrees, just enough to keep his arms from falling asleep.

Harry circled to stand behind him and murmured, “Spread your legs.”

After a bare instant of hesitation, Malfoy did so.

Harry drew a hand slowly down the knobs of his spine, from nape to arse, counting the bumps, feeling the hard bone. When he got to those round buttocks, he squeezed the firm flesh once, then pushed them wide, studying Malfoy’s pink little hole and the heavy globes of his bollocks hanging beneath. He took long enough that Malfoy shifted uncomfortably and made a soft sound of acute distress. Harry changed his grip on the left cheek, stroking with the thumb, and Malfoy subsided.

“Anything you don’t want?” Harry asked.

“No fucking,” Malfoy said.

“All right,” Harry said, deciding that this was the reason for Malfoy’s lie about not having lube. He didn’t want to bottom. Although Harry found it odd that Malfoy would let himself be maneuvered into this position (bent over and legs spread, gorgeous and exposed for crying out loud) if he wasn’t okay with a little arse play. It wasn’t like a blow job would be feasible. Harry reached underneath the table, careful with the awkward angle, and stroked Malfoy’s cock several times. Fully hard. Already dripping. Was it the ropes? Or the position? Both, maybe.

“Fingers okay?”

Malfoy hesitated again.

“Malfoy, you have to be honest with me. I can’t work around your anxiety if you aren’t.”

“Fingers are okay,” he said sourly. “But nothing else.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing. A sullen Malfoy was much easier to take when he was naked and waiting.

“Fair enough,” he said, and put two fingers in his mouth. He licked thoroughly, slurping just a little so Malfoy would hear, then began to stroke that tightly furled entrance wetly. Malfoy’s breath shuddered, but he didn’t protest. In fact, as Harry continued to touch and dip and stroke without entering, he relaxed into a sigh. When Harry finally eased a fingertip inside, he moaned softly.

“Have you ever let anyone fuck you?” Harry asked, keeping his voice casual. Malfoy tensed up anyway, his shoulders flexing as he gave a single tug on the ropes. Harry watched carefully, barely touching him, and saw, with no small amount of interest, that the reminder of the bonds seemed to calm him down. His muscles remained tight, but he didn’t sound hostile when he spoke. Just nervous.

“I’m not a virgin. I only…I fucked Nott. In sixth year, before…the tower. He, um, used fingers on me once, but that’s…” He broke off a second, then said, rather bitterly, “Malfoys don’t take it up the arse, Potter, didn’t you know?”

“Chosen Ones do,” Harry said mildly. “On occasion. It’s no one’s business but ours, Malfoy. Take a breath.”

Malfoy did, and Harry noted that some of the tension went with it when he exhaled. Harry kept his tone easy, barely more than curious. “And there’s been no one since then?”

As he waited for an answer, he pushed his finger farther in, making Malfoy squirm slightly. “I wasn’t about to fuck any Death Eaters, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I know you well enough to know you have better taste than that. At least Nott was attractive.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said dryly. “And no.” He grunted as Harry began to work a second finger inside; the saliva wasn’t holding out very well. Malfoy continued, strain in his voice now, “The anxiety attacks started while I was visiting my father in Azkaban a few days after the Battle of Hogwarts. I never managed to…Merlin, Potter, watch what the fuck you’re doing.”

Harry grinned, knowing Malfoy couldn’t see him. “Not quite enough lubrication,” he said, trying to sound apologetic, almost disappointed. He used his fingertip to brush in the general area where Malfoy’s prostate would be, and didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s hips stuttered. He did it again, then pulled out, sighing with audible regret. “I guess—”

“All right, you ponce, I’ve got lube. You can summon it, but don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. And no fucking.”

“Because Malfoys don’t take it up the arse,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I got it, you little liar.”

With his left hand, he cast a quick _accio,_ and caught the tube that came racing down the stairs. “Expensive,” he said, surveying the label.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Feeling out of sorts?” Harry asked innocently, slicking up his fingers.

“If you don’t—ah!”

Not sparing him now that there was proper wetness, Harry pushed gently but firmly with two fingers, easing him open. He didn’t want Malfoy loose; Harry had no need to prepare him for intercourse, after all. He just wanted a little room to move, and once Malfoy had relaxed a bit, Harry took full advantage. He searched and found, and then aimed a self-satisfied, rather sadistic smile at the back of Malfoy’s head.

He spread his fingertips slightly, stroking on either side of Malfoy’s prostate, just missing the place of highest sensitivity. Malfoy made a small choking noise and subtly shifted his weight, as if to guide Harry to the right spot without Harry noticing. It figured that even Malfoy’s arse would be inherently manipulative, he thought with a smirk. Harry just shook his head and moved with him, avoiding more than the edge of that small circle of firm flesh.

He went slow and steady, stroking, stroking, stroking, taunting, teasing, tempting. Long minutes passed while Malfoy struggled to pretend he was unaffected, as if his flushed skin and parted, trembling lips didn’t give the game away. Harry patiently kept on, steadfastly refusing to give him what he wanted, ignoring the urgency of his own erection against his zip.

The only sounds were their panting breaths, Malfoy’s sighs, and the squelching of lube. It leant a sharpness to the moment, this intense lack of distraction. The entire world narrowed down to this one small act of trust, this tiny moment of drawn-out pleasure.

It took longer than Harry thought it would, but slowly, Malfoy’s dignity gave way to craving. Malfoy arched, seemingly against his will, buttocks quivering, pushing back and fucking himself on Harry’s fingers, looking lovely and desperate and well beyond thought. The muscles in his arms strained against the ropes and helpless little noises spilled from his mouth. It was maddeningly sexy; Harry caved in to the urge to bend down and rub his lips warm and wet over Malfoy’s back. He licked and bit, and when Malfoy groaned, Harry closed his eyes to get some semblance of control back.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he managed. “All needy and warm and strung out.”

Malfoy gritted, “Fuck you, Potter.”

“Hmm?” Harry asked, gently trailing his fingers ever-so-lightly along the edges of that spot, making the other man writhe and twist. God, that was hot to watch. He forced himself to focus. “Problem, Malfoy? Am I boring you?”

“You’re a bastard.”

“So you’ve told me,” Harry said, torn between laughing and rubbing his cock against the bare thigh beside him. What the hell, why not do both? In fact, while he was at it, he opened his jeans and pulled himself out, cupping his length before letting his groin rest against Malfoy’s left buttock. Which tensed, along with his entire back.

Harry redirected Malfoy’s attention with a particularly effective slip of his fingers, prompting another moan, and Harry pressed closer, letting the movement of Malfoy’s hips brush the head of his cock against warm, firm skin. “Gods,” he whispered, feeling the heat all the way up his spine.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, breathy but reasonable, as if he were about to try to broker a deal.

“Just shut up and take it,” Harry ordered, not unkindly. “This isn’t a negotiation. While your wrists are in that rope, you’re mine, and if I want you to feel pleasure, you’ll feel pleasure. And you love it, you know you do, so stop whinging.”

“Damn you,” Malfoy ground out, shoving his hips back. When Harry bent down again, drawing his tongue along that long neck, he tasted sweat. And need. Malfoy kept rocking, getting frustrated, maybe even angry, until he sounded ready to bite when he said, “Please.”

“Please what?” Harry asked, and rocking against Malfoy in turn. It wasn’t enough, and finally he eased back a little, taking his own length in hand and stroking. He’d never wanked left-handed before; he wasn’t quite coordinated enough to make it as good as it normally was, but having Malfoy here, straining and begging, did a lot to make up for it.

“Potter, damn it!”

“I’m going to need a little specificity,” Harry said, out of breath and scowling with concentration. His voice sounded wrecked. He continued to torment Malfoy, who apparently felt it necessary to bang his head against the table once in frustration.

“Do it _right_ ,” Malfoy yelled.

“Seems right from where I’m standing,” Harry said, but his concentration kept wavering, and he kept having to remind himself why he’d thought taking Malfoy apart like this was a good idea when they could both already be coming. “Maybe I just have bad aim. You think?”

“Gods,” Malfoy whimpered, dropping his head on the table again with a thud. He dissolved into nonsensical cries and murmurs, and Harry stroked himself faster and faster.

“Say what you want,” Harry bit out. His balls were tightening, even as his left arm was getting a little tired. At this rate he’d lose all fine motor skills right before he came, but it might be worth it; Malfoy was a complete mess. His whole body twisted and pulsated, arse following Harry’s fingers wildly, and he kept making these wonderfully broken sounds deep in his throat, and Harry had never wanted anything so badly but to ease his pain, to spread Malfoy out and sink balls deep into that tight arse.

“Fuck me,” Malfoy whispered. “Gods, Potter, fuck me, please, fuck me. Finish it. Please.”

“No,” Harry said and brought the pads of his fingers close together, directly over Malfoy’s prostate, increasing the tempo and the pressure, and three strokes later Malfoy groaned helplessly, arched his back, and came violently, surging against the table. Harry didn’t stop until Malfoy began to collapse and twitch, and then he was coming himself, teeth clamping closed, sending his come against Malfoy’s buttocks, the pleasure weakening his knees and making him liquid and weak. He slumped into the nearest chair, elbow on the table, eyes closed.

When he’d gotten some of his spine back, Harry opened his eyes, found Malfoy watching him over the line of his left arm. “I can’t help wondering what that was supposed to prove,” Malfoy said, sounding as lazy and thick as Harry felt.

He stared down at his hands, one covered in come, the other covered in lube, and frowned. He wished he could do a wandless cleaning spell. “It’s pretty simple, actually. You said no fucking, so I didn’t fuck you. You set a boundary and I respected it, even though it seems pretty obvious that you only set that boundary because you think you _should_ have. But bear in mind that this is going to be complicated enough without you lying to me. You don’t have to hide the lube to keep me from fucking you if you don’t want me to. And you don’t have to pretend not to want something if you really do.”

He waited, giving the other man a chance to respond, but Malfoy didn’t say anything, and after a second he looked away. Eventually, Harry found his feet and went to the sink to clean up.

*

Draco paid close attention to the letter the Creature was penning. They sat at the table in the kitchen, the scratching of the quill the only sound in the room. The Creature had excused Goober to complete whatever tasks house elves completed when they weren’t underfoot, and Harry had gone to work, giving It plenty of time to attend to whatever It was up to.

 

_Department of Magical Transportation, Portkey Office_

_I wish to reserve a spot on the next portkey traveling to Emirande, France. If someone could please respond with the date and time of departure and price of passage, it would be greatly appreciated._

_Draco Malfoy_

Emirande was an entirely Wizarding village, Draco knew, just like Hogsmeade, and exactly the destination Draco would’ve chosen if he’d been looking for a witch in France. He watched as the Creature put the missive in an envelope and sent it off with Bromley, their owl.

_Will we be returning?_

**That depends on what I find.**

Draco hesitated, not wanting to push his luck, but the Creature seemed in a receptive mood. As It went downstairs and began to root through the panty for something to eat, It even hummed a little, a tune Draco didn’t recognize.

_Why are we looking for Jugson?_

The Creature paused, an apple in one hand. Draco’s anxiety spiked, but as the time drew out and no threats against Harry came, he started to wonder just what the Creature was thinking.

Finally, It thought quietly, **The words of the dying: _yours is the earth_.**

*

Harry’s first week back at the Ministry since Draco’s accident stretched on forever. Half of his mind remained at the cottage no matter which tasks he worked on, and he had to physically stop himself several times a day from finding a floo to call home and check up on Draco. The worrying left him with near-constant tension headaches and a foul mood.

The problem was that he needed to hear Draco’s voice and reassure himself that the other man was still there. Not because Harry thought he might have died or anything, although there was always a little voice in the back of his head that whispered that possibility, but because things had been awful since their fight, and there seemed little sign of abatement.

The worst part was that he seemed to be the only one who noticed it. Draco had gone on like nothing had happened, like Harry hadn’t spent three days walking around hurt and angry and confused, and he was starting to get legitimately worried.

On Friday, he’d just slugged down a potion for the pain of yet another headache, grimacing at the taste, when someone knocked on the door to his office.

“How’s Malfoy, Cousin Harry?” Angie asked, sticking her head in.

“Better, Not-My-Cousin Angelica,” he answered, giving her the only real smile that had graced his lips all day. “How’s Domestic Duty?”

“Exhausting,” she said, all but falling into the chair across from him and closing her eyes. “I swear, if I’d had any idea just how ridiculously incompetent so many of our citizens are, I’d have decided to be a waitress.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Nothing like taking care of the tenth boggart in a week to make you appreciate a Dark wizard or witch.”

“I’ve been bitten by doxies four times this month. That’s a lot of antivenin.”

“You’re just trying to pick up that new healer down in the infirmary.”

“Do you blame me?” she asked, a grin stretching across her face.

Harry grinned back. “Not in the least, but Draco never hears that I said that. Also, what the hell are you doing? There have to be less painful ways to get dates.”

She shrugged. “Not all of us have perfect boyfriends.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, then fell quiet.

Angelica, not being stupid, tilted her head to one side. “Whoa. What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you look like you just ate something sour.”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Your pants are officially on fire, Cousin Harry. Out with it.”

“It’s really nothing,” he insisted, then immediately added, “He’s been acting sort of weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Just weird. Like…he’s normal. The anxiety seems to be gone, poof, overnight, and that doesn’t happen. He’s been dealing with this for eight years. He hits his head and suddenly he’s fine? That doesn’t make sense.”

Angie sucked on her lower lip—a rather obnoxious habit she fell into when she was thinking that usually drove him mental, but she was being so nice and supportive that it didn’t even bother him—then said, “Maybe it isn’t that he’s suddenly all better. Maybe the source of his anxiety just shifted. Instead of being afraid of going out and taking risks, now he’s afraid not to, because he almost died and lost the chance to do some live-big stuff. That would make sense.”

“Live-big stuff,” Harry repeated.

“Like going sailing and learning to speak another language and partying and meeting people. Living the stuff he mostly watches on telly.”

“Eating squid,” Harry said softly.

She made a face that clearly said he’d given her the most disgusting example possible. “If that’s what floats your boat, you enormous freak, but yes.”

He didn’t so much as smile. “That’s what he wanted to try. Squid. Well, first it was whale, but I talked him out of committing a crime for dinner.”

She laughed. “Wait. We’re talking about Draco Malfoy, right? The man who—if I recall correctly—told you to go fuck yourself when you tried to get him to try _escargot_? Who said that people who engaged in rimming deserved to die of sepsis? Who is far more likely to leave the house to go to the dentist than a pub? That man decided he wanted to eat raw squid and seemed happy about it?”

“I’m serious,” he said. “And you’re going to think I’m nuts, but there’s other stuff, too. Little things. He mispronounced the word _ennui_ the other day. He said en-you-ee. The little bastard speaks French, and I know he’s used that word correctly before. But suddenly he doesn’t know how to say it right? And he always has two slices of toast with Marionberry jam for breakfast. Always. Guess what he had this morning? Eggs. And yesterday? Oatmeal.”

“Harry,” she said slowly, as if reluctant to point out what he already knew, which was that those things didn’t add up to anything meaningful.

“And we got into a fight,” he said quickly, because the more he spoke, the more it became clear that all of this felt far more substantial than it had while it was just rolling around in his head. Even if Angie wasn’t buying it yet, there was more than enough here to make Harry face the truth. This was why he’d spilled his guts to Angie, he realized. He wanted reassurance, and talking to Hermione or Ron meant it was a real problem. Now, though, saying it out loud, he had no choice but to acknowledge it. Something was wrong.

“You two fight fairly frequently,” she pointed out. “You’ve got it down to a science at this point I’d think.”

“It was a bad one. He took off for a while.”

She tossed back her thick brown hair impatiently. “You mean that as in ‘he went out for a walk to cool down’, not ‘he took off because the pair of you are contemplating breaking up,’ right?”

“I mean he took off for eleven hours without a note and refuses to tell me where he went.”  
“Whoa,” she said.

“Thank you!” Harry replied, suddenly angry again. He stood up and slammed his fist on his desk, making her jump. “He acted like he’d bought the wrong kind of lettuce at the market or something, like I was the one being a prat for throwing a fit. I even started to feel like I was being unfair.”

“You’re not,” she said thoughtfully. “It would be one thing if you weren’t living together, and if he hadn’t just been in hospital, and if it wasn’t Draco, who makes leaving the house to buy potion ingredients a production that would rival _Le Mis.”_

He put a grateful, affectionate hand on her shoulder, squeezing once.

“All things I explained,” he said. “And he did apologize.”

“But?” She twisted in her chair to follow him with her eyes as he paused by Genevieve, the lush spider plant that sat on top of one of his high shelves and trailed happily down the wall. Malfoy had come to his office one day when they’d first gotten together, taken a single look at the sad state of Ficus Five, and promptly read Harry the riot act before stealing it and taking it home to nurse back to health. Ficus Five now flourished, occupying a spot on their shady back patio in the summer and taking up a whole corner in Draco’s lab in the winter. Draco had installed Genevieve a few weeks later, full of demands about Harry asking for help if he was so inept at life that he couldn’t manage to fill a cup with water a couple times a week. Harry had grumbled, but thoughts of Malfoy’s sterling yards and gardens had kept him from complaining too much, and now he had a thriving mass of greenery taking over his bookshelf, because Malfoy had chosen a species of plant that seemed better able to withstand Harry’s inattentions.

Harry hesitated, stroking one leaf, wondering how to say _but he didn’t mean it. I was in pain and he said all the right things, but he didn’t care. I could feel it._ But that was far too difficult to admit, and sounded a little whiny anyway. Finally he went with, “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“It’s recovery stuff,” she suggested. “Acting out. He might be tired of all the stress or freaked out from nearly dying.”

“No. I thought that at first, but…I don’t know. On the surface it seems like he’s getting better. His anxiety, I mean, not just his health since the accident. He’s going out. He seems less anxious. I should be happy, right? That’s good.”

“Right,” she said slowly. “But you aren’t?”

He groaned. “Maybe I’m the one being a jerk. He starts getting better and the first thing I do is start trying to put him back in his little cage. Maybe part of me doesn’t want him to get better.”

“Why on earth not?”

 _Because he’ll leave me,_ he thought, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he shrugged.

He might as well have said it; based on her sympathetic expression she’d figured out what he meant anyway, sharp girl that she was. She shook her head. “Sorry, Harry, but I don’t buy it. You’re ridiculously decent. So decent it’s sort of embarrassing being your friend. I can see you being afraid that he’ll suddenly want to experience the world through a series of random encounters with gay men in loos, but I don’t see you lying to yourself about it. You’re too brave to hide from shit like that.”

“You’re wrong, but you’re sweet.”

“Harry, Draco isn’t with you because of his anxiety issues. He’s with you despite them. You know that.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I do. I think. But I don’t want to know that, because that means that I’m not reading into the situation. That means that he’s not okay.”

*

On the first Sunday after Ron and Hermione’s fight over Malfoy, Harry went to his weekly dinner at the Burrow and managed, somehow, to survive an incredibly awkward meal from his seat squarely between his best friends, who were so polite with one another that Harry flinched each time one of them spoke. Mrs. Weasley, torn between smoothing everything over and prying out the truth, used Harry as a prop for forced, pleasant conversation, and so he found himself talking too loudly about the afternoon he’d spent with Teddy the day before, an afternoon that Teddy had virtually slept through. Getting ten minutes of conversation from that non-event had been downright painful.

Ginny hadn’t been much of a help, either. Her avid gaze had bounced back and forth between Ron and Hermione like she was watching a tennis match, and she seemed on the verge of asking pointed, curious questions inclined to get Harry—taking up the position of the net as he was—a little bit murdered.

George and Mr. Weasley had scarpered off twenty seconds after dessert was served. Lucky that they hadn’t choked during the inhalation process. While trying to escape Mrs. Weasley’s eagle eye, Mr. Weasley had claimed some emergency with “oscarpillating fans” and George had merely said, “Gods, woman, show some compassion.”

When they’d all finally finished, Ron caught Harry’s eye and gave him a pointed look, and Harry reluctantly said, “So, Hermione, I’d appreciate it if I could ask your advice on something.”

“Oh?” she asked, pausing with a casserole dish in her hands.

“Er. In private?”

“Go,” Mrs. Weasley said, well before Hermione could beg off by claiming to help clean up. Mrs. Weasley was already zeroing in on Ron, determination on her face. Hermione set the dish down with a scowl.

“Fine,” she said. She glanced at Ron, who purposely did not look at her, and then proceeded to grab her cloak and stomp out.

Harry followed with his own cloak in hand, far more slowly and with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He caught up with her out in the field, and started to open his mouth, but didn’t get a chance to say a word.

“I honestly think I’m ready to pull my hair out,” she said. “I feel like I’m being crushed between two heavy stones. On the one side is my oath of confidentiality—magically enforced, I’ll point out—as a healer-in-training. On the other side is my boyfriend. All I said was that he shouldn’t complain about working with Malfoy because it might make him look unprofessional to Marrow, and he apparently interpreted that as _I’m sleeping with Malfoy._ ”

“He doesn’t really believe it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she said bitterly. “He slept on the couch last night of his very own volition. Said he didn’t feel comfortable lying next to me when I was clearly hiding things.”

Harry blinked. “He did not.”

She nodded grimly. “I don’t know why he’s suddenly paranoid about my advice about Malfoy now when I’ve been telling the both of you for _years_ to stop letting him get to you. If he tells Marrow he can’t stay in the seminar it will only make Ron look unprofessional and hung up on something that happened seven years ago. But he somehow interpreted that as an attempt to protect Malfoy! And the fact that I let Malfoy apologize for calling me a mudblood and for being too frightened to intervene while his aunt tortured me apparently makes me a dirty rotten betrayer of the first order, although I don’t see what any of that has to do with Ron. And never mind that I deserved to hear Malfoy say that he was sorry, the prat.”

Harry said nothing; he was a little afraid of her just now, what with her voice so shrill and her cheeks bright pink. Her eyes were shiny, but he couldn’t tell if that was rage or tears, and desperately hoped he wouldn’t find out. He knew her well enough to know that the anger was little more than a cover for misery, and that once it burned out she’d be more receptive to comfort, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t amply familiar with the way her temper could strike the unwary.

She continued, tone still acrid. “I won’t apologize for accepting the apology for crimes done to _me,_ Harry _._ I have that bloody right.”

Harry cleared his throat, wondering if maybe he might be wiser to keep his mouth shut, but she looked at him expectantly. “Why did you accept his apology?” he asked. “Just out of curiosity.”

She sighed, looking abruptly tired. “Millicent Bulstrode was raped.”

Harry stopped short. “What?”

“That’s why he was there that day at St. Mungo’s. He’d been to visit Millicent. Someone raped her, carved the words _For the Muggleborn_ into her belly and left her in a field.”

“Jesus,” Harry said. He swallowed convulsively.

“It made the Prophet,” she said. “With an unsurprising lack of indictment. That bloody rag. But you’ve stopped reading the paper, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, for the most part.”

“I bumped into him right outside her room; I knew why he was there. He’d been crying, I could tell. And he looked up at me, and he said, ‘Do we deserve this?’ Like he really wanted to know the answer and thought maybe I could tell him. And I didn’t know what to say. I was angry at him…It feels sometimes like I’ve been angry for years, ever since that night at the Manor…and I thought that if those of us on the Light weren’t careful we were going to become the very people we fought so hard to subdue. He wiped his eyes and asked if he could speak to me, if he could apologize, do it the right way and buy me a cuppa, and I stood there feeling ashamed of my own blood for the very first time and I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t. And he was so very fragile and sincere. There wasn’t a single excuse in the lot, and his hands were shaking, and for the first time in forever I felt something other than anger. I felt…oh, hell, I don’t know. Hope, maybe. If Malfoy can learn and become something better, then maybe…Harry, I…”

“I get it,” he said softly, because he did. Given those circumstances, anyone with a heart as good as Hermione’s would have a hard time doing otherwise.

“And then Helena—Healer Halbestan—asked me if I felt comfortable working with Malfoy during my training rotation with her. I didn’t want to disappoint her—she’s a great woman, and I’m very lucky to be studying with her, and I wanted her to think well of me. And I thought about how I’d been encouraging everyone to move on from the war, and…well, you have to admit, it would be a bit hypocritical of me to preach about moving on, even accepting the man’s apology, only to be unable to work with him in a professional capacity.” She paused. “And on a more pragmatic level, I figured that supporting Malfoy in his efforts to not be an evil shit was probably a good idea. So I said yes.”

She stared up at the swiftly darkening sky. “I don’t particularly like him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to, even if the two of you become something. But I respect what he’s trying to do. He’s not evil, as much as we might once have thought so. He was a child, and he had no say over the environment he was raised in. Now that he has the freedom to choose, he’s distanced himself from all of that quite thoroughly. I’m trying to do the right thing, Harry, and my boyfriend thinks I’m cheating on him.”

“It’s a shitty situation for both of you,” Harry said, wincing a little at how spectacularly useless that was.

“Oh?” she asked coolly. “When he was spending eighty hours a week training to be an Auror did I throw a fit about the distance in our relationship? When he couldn’t talk to me about cases that he was working on, did I get suspicious and accuse him of hiding things? Any idiot with a brain would put two and two together as to why a healer avoids questions about a particular person she doesn’t even like, but no, I get the passive aggressive pouting. So you tell me which one of us is treating the other one poorly.”

“Hey. I’m not on anyone’s side.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled ruefully. “I’m the one who’s actually having sex with Malfoy, remember? That’s about a million times worse than you and your career and your polite acceptance of apologies, so it’s not like I can throw judgment around.”

“That’s true,” she said, sounding a little cheered. They walked together in companionable quiet for a moment, twigs crunching and soggy ground sliding beneath their feet.

“We’re hiding it,” Harry said. “Neither one of us wants it complicated. I’m not going to push him, either, like you said. I, uh, bought a book the other day. A Muggle one about something called Panic Disorder. I didn’t realize how bad it could get. Is he—”

“I can listen,” she interrupted. “But I can’t give you advice or answer questions.”

He’d sort of expected that, but it still felt like a loss. He wasn’t sure who to talk to about the mess then. Still, it wasn’t Hermione’s problem. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m not being particularly helpful to either of my boys at the moment,” she murmured.

“Why don’t you ask Malfoy if you can—”

“No,” she said flatly. “It’s unprofessional and unfair to him and, dammit, I shouldn’t have to. I’ve never done anything to make Ron think he can’t trust me. If anything, he’s the unreliable one. I’m not going to crawl and beg when I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. I understand he’s struggling and I don’t want him hurting, Harry, but his pain is self-inflicted, and frankly, I’m completely over the jealousy. It got old years ago.”

Harry clamped his mouth shut, although he wasn’t sure what he would’ve said anyway.

Sometimes he wondered how the hell the two of them had managed to stay together as long as they had. They loved each other, he knew, and quite deeply. But they were both stubborn as hell, and in many ways, not well suited.

Not that he could talk. He was fucking a man he’d once nearly killed in a bathroom. He couldn’t exactly claim to be making adult choices.

In a way, Harry was incredibly impressed with Hermione. She’d used her bit of fame as one of the so-called Golden Trio to for two purposes. First, to push for laws forbidding corporal punishment of house elves, and second to encourage people to work together to move on after the war. She’d written a series of articles for the Quibbler promoting the peaceful reconstruction of Wizarding Britain. A civil war was different from other kinds of wars, she’d written. One day the man in the cubicle beside yours was your enemy, and the next he was back to being your coworker. And while she could understand the resentment and grief and hate—she had, after all, been tortured, and lost friends, and even given up her parents—the important thing to remember was that the people who were guilty of the crimes against the Light were either dead, imprisoned, or in the process of being tracked down. Those who remained free to pick up the pieces of their lives could not be lumped together as interchangeable symbols of evil. They had to be considered individually, as tarring them all with the same brush did none of them any good: grudges were still sparking bloodshed left and right even years later.

The biggest example of this had been at Hogwarts, in fact, the year after the school was reopened after the battle. There’d been a massive movement of hatred against Slytherin House. Those students had been subjected to increasingly violent attacks, entirely based on their supposed allegiance to Voldemort, never mind that some of those students were innocent of committing any crimes at all, let alone any warranting the kind of spite they were facing. Never mind that many of them were actually half-bloods (and more than a few were Muggleborn these days). Never mind that Snape, quite possibly the most crucial player in all of the war besides Dumbledore and Harry himself, had been a Slytherin. Students were grieving and angry, and anyone with even a whiff of _enemy_ attached—no matter how deserved—was ripe for punishment. It had culminated in a twelve-year-old Slytherin girl being blinded.

Saying that all Slytherins and Purebloods were the same was a mistake, Hermione had said to Harry one day after the incident, pointing out that the reaction of the Light today would dictate how many enemies they had in the future. Those who did not identify with their old enemies might be driven to it, and those who sympathized but didn’t want to act might suddenly find the motivation. Not that it wasn’t understandable, she had acknowledged; it was easier to lump all enemies in the same group because then you didn’t have to think about the people who fell into a more complicated gray area. Then, she had admitted more quietly, her gaze introspective, you didn’t have to wonder if the acts you’d committed to win had been justified.

They returned to the Burrow in companionable silence, as each was lost in thought. Back in the kitchen, Harry met Ron’s expectant look and shook his head glumly. He wished he could have found the words to fix this whole thing for them, but from the moment Ron had asked Harry to try to figure out what was going on, he’d known there was nothing he could do. As Ron’s face fell back into lines of anger and misery, Harry abruptly understood why Malfoy preferred to live alone in a cottage without friends or relatives.

There was no one to disappoint.

*

That night, Draco waited anxiously while the Creature prepared for bed. It didn’t quite have the routine down yet; It nearly forgot to floss until Draco reminded It, and It downright refused to use the toner that Draco preferred. By the time It slid into bed with a jaw-cracking yawn, Draco’s nerves were strung so tight he was ready to throttle something. It gave Harry a peck on the cheek, ignoring the way Harry studied Its expression, and rolled over to go to sleep. After a moment, the bedroom plunged into darkness.

“Good night,” Harry murmured.

“Yeah,” the Creature said, oblivious to the tension in the air, although Draco couldn’t see how It possibly could be. He could sense Harry’s disquiet easily enough. Things had been awkward between them since their fight, in large part because the Creature didn’t care enough about Harry’s feelings to put in any more effort than necessary for Its cover as Draco. Normally, Draco would be letting Harry pet him and kiss him. Allowing the affection was Draco’s way of reminding Harry that he was sorry, and they’d gotten into the habit of it whenever they fought about Draco’s inability to let Harry in.

The Creature, however, had said It was sorry and immediately returned to keeping Harry at arm’s length, and Harry had definitely noticed.

Although his instinct might have been to soothe his partner, Draco could only be glad of it. If Harry came to the conclusion that something wasn’t right on his own…maybe he would know not to let on and put himself at risk before he’d figured out a way to save Draco.

The Creature stared at the wall for a while, pretending to be asleep in order to avoid conversation. Its eyes adjusted to the gloom, and soon Draco could make out the shape of the armoire and vanity in the shadows beside the outline of the window, where moonlight snuck in along the edges of the curtains. It took forever; Draco began to worry that he’d be able to do anything tonight at all. Finally, though, Harry made the soft little noises he always made before drifting off—a series of sighs as he got comfortable—and Draco felt the last bit of wariness seep from Its shoulders at the knowledge that It had avoided any further interaction. Now relaxed, it was only a matter of time before It got tired enough to sleep.

As soon as he felt the heavy, thick gravity yanking him into dreams, Draco thought of the kiss Harry had given to It, and _pushed._

The divide opened quickly, almost easily, and without much strain. Draco was pleased about this; it meant he could focus on other things. Not that he wasn’t aware of the risks involved if he timed his use of the divide badly. If he didn’t hold it long enough, he’d be sucked into the unconsciousness of the Creature’s sleep. If he held it too long, he’d be sucked into the unconsciousness of his own exhaustion.

So he counted to a minute, second-guessed himself, and did it again. Then he tentatively lowered the divide.

Darkness did indeed tug at him, but he gritted his metaphorical teeth and hung on. The weight of it—which he took as proof that the Creature was out cold—nearly _hurt._ But Draco fought it off, and although his effort felt enormous and loud and unmistakably independent, time stretched and the Creature didn’t so much as roll over.

With a grimace of effort, Draco lifted the divide once more. That was a marked improvement, he admitted, feeling the weight of the Creature’s slumber vanish.

Now that he knew the Creature was asleep, he could get started.

Thinking of what he needed to do, it took him a second to realize that he had control of his eyes. It sunk in slowly, and he took a long, lazy survey of the room around him, feeling the heat of tears spring up. He blinked furiously, not wanting to get distracted, but it just felt so good to have mastery over his own flesh and blood again.

With a barely contained thrill, he decided to move on to a finger. Just one finger. His right index. He stared down at the digit, glorying in the way his eyes could follow his orders to easily, and watched, with blinding satisfaction, as that finger obediently lifted.

It worked.

It _worked._

For a second, he strongly considered rolling over and simply telling Harry he was possessed. Slapping him awake and explaining as fast as he could. But he almost immediately dismissed it. The Creature could wake at any time, and as soon as he started moving too quickly or began speaking, that became a near-certainty. If Draco couldn’t get through at least a bare explanation (“I’m possessed, there’s something manipulating my body, and it wants to hurt you, you have to restrain me now and get it out”) before the Creature woke up, Harry would likely die when the Creature retaliated. A second problem was that Harry rarely woke up clear-headed. It would take him several minutes of groggy questions before he would be able to grasp something as unbelievable as this, much less see Draco as the physical threat he would be, and it was incredibly unlikely Draco would get through all of that without the Creature waking up, reasserting control, and killing Harry before Harry could make a move.

Even if this ended without Harry being any the wiser, if the Creature knew what Draco could do, it would take no more chances.

No, he would need something secretive. A note, perhaps. Something Harry could find and contemplate in his own time. He would have to put the note somewhere the Creature wouldn’t find it but Harry would be certain to. Draco thought a second, and decided that the pocket of Harry’s Auror robes would be a good place.

Without further excuses, Draco forced his body to take a deep breath; his chest moved without effort, and he couldn’t keep from smiling. He took firm hold of his glee and slowly began to sit up.

 _Easy,_ he reminded himself. He folded the bedclothes back and deftly eased his legs over the side of the bed with exaggerated slowness. He listened hard for a sign that he might have woken Harry, but the other man simply breathed on softly. A moment to gather his courage, and Draco stood.

He half-expected his legs to wobble beneath him, but the problem had never been his muscles or bones. His body responded as if it had never belonged to something else, and he found himself walking out of the bedroom and downstairs with perfect confidence and ease.

The sitting room had a distinct air of creepiness to it in the night; Draco had never been someone who was comfortable alone in a dark house. He tended to light more candles than he really needed to if he couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t dare light anything now. Instead he went through to the kitchen, where he pulled out a piece of the parchment that the Creature had used earlier that day to request a portkey. The jar of ink opened with a small clink of glass, making Draco wince slightly, but he received no sign that the Creature had woken.

This whole thing, he thought, was beyond bizarre. Who had these problems?

He hadn’t dared try to compose the note with the divide down, for fear the Creature would listen in. That meant he wasted valuable seconds trying to decide what to write, the ink dripping off his quill while he stood there stupidly.

Finally, he scrawled, _Crucial, Harry, Do NOT show this note to Draco. It’s a matter of life and death._

That seemed good, because the last thing he needed was for Harry to see the note and just ask the Creature what it was without bothering to read it. This way Harry would at least get some privacy first. After a moment’s thought, he bent back over the parchment.

“Draco? Are you okay?”

Draco turned, panic brewing, feeling a deep-seated sensation of movement in his mind at the sound of Harry’s sleepy question. His eyes had adjusted thoroughly; it was all too easy to see Harry in the doorway, tousled and curious, confused and heavy-lidded, and even a little concerned.

“You can’t—” _trust me,_ Draco started to shout, but the Creature stirred, awoke, roared back into power with a vengeance, thrusting Draco aside and knocking the divide into dust. Instantly, exhaustion yanked at him, nearly sucking him under, and he fought, fought with everything he had to stay here, to protect Harry.

Two seconds passed, then three, while the Creature took in Its surroundings: Harry half-asleep, the darkened kitchen, the quill in Its hand.

“Did you say something, Potter?” The Creature asked, sounding relatively calm considering the red-tinged rage flooding It. Draco couldn’t worry about that just yet. It was all he could do not to succumb to the tide of darkness. Slowly, slowly, it retreated somewhat, leaving Draco exhausted and terrified.

“Just seeing if you were okay,” Harry said, his head tilting slightly. He looked warm and young and nearly adorable standing there in his boxer-briefs, smothering a yawn, and Draco wanted nothing more than to hold him close and keep him safe.

“I’m fine,” the Creature said, rolling Its eyes and projecting exactly the right amount of exasperation at Harry’s continuing protectiveness. “I thought of something I want to test in the lab tomorrow, that’s all. Wanted to write it down before I forgot.”

“Oh. Okay. Don’t stay up too late.” Harry gave Draco a sweetly dopey smile and stumbled back toward the stairs. As the Creature listened carefully to Harry’s footsteps on the return trip to bed, Draco shuddered in the small pocket of his mind, holding on with everything he had. Hold on, he told himself. Hold on. But the exhaustion from holding up the divide pulled so very heavily.

When no more noise came from upstairs, the Creature turned Its attention to the parchment on the table. It read the words more than once, then picked up the note and proceeded to tear it methodically into a tiny pieces. When It had finished, It put the pieces in the bin. Then it sank into the nearest chair, back straight, and stared at the wall.

Long minutes went by, and Draco remained silent, utterly unsure what to do or say to fix this. A part of him wished that the Creature had been bluffing, but he doubted it, judging from the frightening calm with which the Creature had disposed of the note. Draco tried desperately to think of something. A few things came to mind, shitty, unconvincing things, all of them barely thought out, as most of his attention was on trying not to go under. He dismissed all of them, trying to consider what the Creature might respond to. What did the Creature stand to lose by acting against Harry?

Draco didn’t know what made the Creature decide that enough time had gone by; the moment seemed downright arbitrary to him. But It turned on Its heel and went to the nearby drawer of cutlery. Its fingers paused for a second on the knob, then drifted to the knife block on the counter. It pulled out a seven-inch long chef’s knife, and Draco suddenly didn’t have to search for words. Speaking took an enormous amount of effort, but panic lent him strength.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I didn’t mean it, gods, you can’t hurt him, you can’t, please, I’ve learned my lesson._

The Creature tested the sharpness of the blade on Its finger, drawing a single bead of blood easily. Then It left the kitchen and entered the sitting room.

_Think about what you’re doing. First of all, Harry is tough. He already died once, and he’s an Auror, so he’ll fight back, and he’s got magic, so you’ll be taking a big risk with this body. He might capture you and figure it out, and that’s if he doesn’t kill you trying to subdue you. He’s sleeping, so he might act instinctively and then you’ll be dead, Merlin, think about that._

The Creature got to the stairs and silently began to climb. Draco could feel the weight of the knife in his own hand, and longed, strained, tried to drop it. His fingers remained firmly clamped around the handle. He babbled faster, begging better than he ever had in his life, feeling his thoughts unraveling as his grip on consciousness wavered.

_Gods, even worse, think who would be the biggest suspect if you do manage it. He’s in bed! Everyone will assume it was you. You’re the only one with the opportunity. The cottage is under Fidelius, so it’s not like someone could break in. Everyone will know it was you. Your cover will be completely blown. You won’t be able to stay._

The Creature entered the bedroom and approached the bed, where Harry’s still form—snuggled deeply into the covers and already sound asleep again—lay waiting. Vulnerable. Helpless. Draco couldn’t bear this. His words fell over each other, slurring now with tiredness and fear, and he couldn’t breathe knowing they might not be enough.

_And even if you run, you’re going to have a hard time doing whatever you want to do in France, because every newspaper in the world will have your picture. You’ll be hiding in alleys, every Auror and Ministry Official in the world will be looking for you, and people like the Freemantles might even turn you in. You can’t hurt Harry, it would be stupid, the stupidest thing you could do, it’ll ruin everything, all your plans, and you don’t even need to, because I’ve learned my lesson._

The Creature stood there, staring down at Harry, apparently content to let Draco’s panicked arguments run over It like water. And finally, _finally,_ It stepped back. It went around to Draco’s side of the bed and put the knife in the bedside drawer.

_Thank you, thank you, you won’t regret it, I won’t do it again._

**We aren’t finished, little one. You will pay for this transgression.**

Draco let go and slipped into the dark.


	7. Breathe With Me

Draco resurfaced from the exhausted black-out of the night before into a bright, crisp morning. The Creature was bundled up against the cold air and riding Harry’s old Firebolt, one hand fully occupied by eating a green apple while, with the other, It swung the broom in long, lazy drifts back and forth across a wide dirt lane lined with majestic oaks. A ways up ahead stood a high stone wall, broken only by an imposing black gate, but it didn’t matter that the wall concealed most of what lay beyond; even if Draco hadn’t spent years accustomed to staring at the eaves and roof of that particular structure, he’d have recognized any part of the grounds.

**Look familiar?**

_You know it does._

The Creature tsked disapprovingly. **Such attitude, and directed toward one that has done you a favor.**

Draco didn’t know how to address that exactly. He did not consider the Creature’s reluctant decision not to murder Harry a favor. But remembering the Creature’s last admonishment before the dark had taken Draco under, he couldn’t suppress a shiver. Retribution would be coming, and he felt fear deep into his bones that it had something to do with being here, a place he hadn’t been to in more than seven years.

Malfoy Manor.

The Creature soared up when the gate approached, taking the broom neatly over the wall and then back toward the ground on the other side. Anyone else would’ve been stopped and held in place for attempting to breach the property, but the blood wards apparently didn’t care that Draco’s body housed a monster.

Draco would’ve smirked if he could have. That answered the question of how much the Creature knew about the uses of complex magic.

Next to nothing.

Draco would not be able to stop whatever was about to happen, but that didn’t mean that there was no hope.

Now the Manor itself loomed, achingly familiar and painfully difficult to look at all at once. Draco knew every inch of the place, well enough to see the disrepair everywhere. There were two broken windows on the East face of the third floor and all the others were filthy. Dozens of shingles had dropped and shattered. The rose garden had browned into sticks, and even from here it was clear that the conservatories on the back of the property were stagnant not because of winter slumber but rot; the stench of over-wet, decaying greenery seemed to saturate the air, sickly sweet and cloying. The topiaries were badly overgrown, and some had clearly been set on fire not so very long ago; black scorch marks discolored the leaves and the grass beneath, and twisted branches littered the area. Worst of all, the topiary nearest the tower, the one that had been kept neatly trimmed in the shape of a small dragon ever since the day Draco had been born, had been sheared down to its naked branches.

At the gravel walkway leading past the large marble fountain, the Creature dismounted, chewing loudly and smacking Its lips on the last few bites of Its apple. When It had finished, It chucked the core into the empty bowl of the fountain, where it rolled down to the drain and lay against leaves and dirt and other small bits of trash.

**Charming place. Wasn’t your family supposed to have been important once?**

Draco hadn’t known the state of things, and as the Creature approached the front door, all he could do was think furiously, his attention torn between the condition of the property and the Creature’s intentions in being here. There had been rumors, of course, that his mother had fallen on hard times, but it had been years since they’d spoken, and Draco had tried his damnedest not to hear any more than he absolutely had to. His mother’s problems were her own, he’d told himself countless times, and occasionally it nearly worked.

Of all the decisions he had made in the year after the war, leaving his mother had been, by far, the hardest. He’d thought, at the time, that it was necessary. Draco could admit that he was weak when it came to pressure from his parents, and he hadn’t been sure how much his mother had learned from the mistakes their family had made during the war. So he had explained his need for a clean break, and she had understood, or claimed to at least. But now, as the front door tore open and he saw sunshine beam upon graying blonde hair, he suddenly realized that he had been an absolute sod to cut this woman out of his life.

_Mother!_

He caught a glimpse of her face—white, old, tired—and had a moment of overwhelming warmth at the way the shock on those features turned rapidly to pleasure when she saw that it was, indeed, Draco at her doorstep.

She took Its arm tentatively, smiling, and he almost couldn’t breathe, because those were tears building in her blue eyes, tears of happiness, and part of him wanted to wipe them away. She did look older, but still beautiful. Worn, but only in the way that an antique’s age lends it stateliness. Narcissa Malfoy had been a great beauty in her youth, and even now, with the ravages of time and poverty and loneliness, she still answered the door to an unexpected guest perfectly coiffed, perfectly made-up and in a perfectly tailored (if ancient) green wool dress, far lovelier than any other woman alive, in Draco’s estimation.

She still smelled of the lilac perfume his father had favored.

“Come inside,” she breathed, lifting a hand to touch his cheek almost shyly, uncertain of her reception. Her fingertips dug into his skin ever so slightly, testing his physicality, as if she doubted her eyes and his presence. She led It inside, talking all the while, her voice as pretty and cultured as ever, although Draco could hear the desperate happiness making her words rush together. Shame at having left her like this colored his thoughts and he clung to her words as proof that he was forgiven.

“I missed you more than you could ever know, my Draco. I’m so wonderfully happy to see you. I thought…for a long time I thought I would never…but you’re home now, love. Can you stay for tea? Please? I’ve got biscuits. And we can talk. I would love to talk to you, and hear all about what you’ve been doing. I know you got your Mastery, love, I was so proud, so very proud…”

The front door closed behind them, and Draco had only a moment to think _please don’t_ before the Creature was on her.

Draco tried to bring up the divide, of course he did, anything to exhaust himself and escape back into the black, but he couldn’t manage it, not with only recently awakening and not with what was unfolding. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t make sense of any of it, because this was obscene, wet and brutal and red and there was no way to comprehend such savagery, no way to put his hands over his ears to curtail the begging and cries and sobs or the sounds of bone cracking, teeth shattering, not when those hands were the source of it all. He could not unlearn the sensation of a small, feminine body straining and struggling and so heartbreakingly fragile as he shoved her down, kept her from running, held her trembling in place with one hand while the other reared back for yet another blow. There was no avoiding the way she crumpled and cried and bled and broke.

Eventually, the Creature straightened, shaking out Its aching fists and breathing hard from the exertion. The mess at Its feet did not move. Draco was afraid to look or ask, and so continued to pretend he did not possess ears or eyes or a mind. But the Creature spoke into the echoing hollow where Draco hid and forced him to have thoughts again.

**I’ll concede that it would be impractical and inconvenient for me to hurt Harry as long as he is unaware of our situation, but I think you see now that I can be quite creative when it comes to punishing those who transgress against me. If you disobey again, it will be worse. Much worse. Do you understand?**

_Yes,_ Draco managed dully. _Yes, I understand._

It closed the door behind Itself and straddled Its broom with an easy swing of one leg. It got comfortable and kicked off, putting Its head back and inhaling deeply of the crisp winter air. It aimed the broom toward home and flew with a laid-back, relaxed air. Somewhere over Bristol, It began to whistle, squinting into the sun, taking Its time.

*

Malfoy had saved the most common of the truly dangerous potions for the end of his seminar. All Aurors—not just those already participating in the sessions—were required to have this information, so he’d arranged to present the same material twice to ensure everyone had a chance to attend. The first of these, and the one that Harry and Ron were to attend, was scheduled for the first Saturday after Harry had tied Malfoy to his kitchen table.

The crowd was far larger than the usual twenty-two students, so a lecture hall had been booked. Harry walked in with Ron at his side and whistled under his breath at the sheer number of bodies—more than a hundred, he was sure, and the room was still filling, so there had to be more than just Aurors attending. Trainees, too, maybe even Hit Wizards.

The atmosphere had a vague undertone that made him uneasy. He remembered all too well the wary aggressiveness directed toward Malfoy in their class that first day, and the energy here was already more potent. He felt a burst of pure worry; the idea of giving a lecture to a group this size with this kind of air made _him_ queasy. He couldn’t imagine how Malfoy was going to feel.

“Let’s sit in back,” Ron suggested, already turning to head up the stairs. The lighting in the hall favored the teacher; the farther back you went, the darker the room was, until those in the farthest seats would be quite invisible to anyone at the front. Ron probably had every intention of not paying attention, and the back of the hall would certainly assist them in that endeavor.

“No,” Harry said, making Ron lift an eyebrow. “I mean, there’s Simmons up front. I, er, wanted to ask her something anyway. Let’s make those trainees move.”

In reality, he wanted to sit somewhere that Malfoy could easily see him, just in case Harry’s steadying presence was required. A friendly face might go miles considering the unsettled mood of the room.

They eased down the line of seats and got the trainees to volunteer their chairs with awed smiles and a few handshakes. Simmons was rolling her eyes well before it was done, her grizzled face smirking as if she knew exactly why Harry wanted to be only a few rows from the professor, who had yet to show up.

“How’s life, Weasley?” Simmons said, speaking past Harry.

“Good,” Ron replied, grinning weakly, probably well aware of what was coming. He knew Simmons quite a bit better than Harry did; she was friends with his parents, having worked with Arthur Weasley on a task force years back. “Considering I’m here on a Saturday.”

“And your girl?”

Ron’s grin faded considerably, making Harry’s chest tighten with discomfort. “She’s good. Working a lot.”

Simmons turned that keen perception on the redhead, that same perception that she often aimed at Harry to such cringe-inducing effect in class. “You’re not being stupid are you? Either of you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ron admitted. “Both of us, actually.”

“Then stop it,” she barked, sounding as if this three-second conversation was all it had taken to thoroughly exasperate her. Ron’s shoulders stiffened and an expression that reeked of petulant-teenager crossed his face.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the older woman all but growled, waving a gnarled, admonishing finger. “But it is that easy. You just decide what’s more important. The person you love or the thing you’re both bitching about. If it’s the person you love, let the rest of it go. Right then.”

“You’re sure about that advice?” Ron asked, his narrowed eyes landing on her bare ring finger, and Harry winced, remembering the six-month period a couple years ago when Simmons had been utterly unbearable to work with.

“Not learning that lesson in time is why I’m divorced, you insolent little berk,” she said, annoyed and affectionate at the same time, “and you should take whatever advice you can get when it’s clear that what you’re doing isn’t working.”

Ron’s face turned red. Harry wondered how he always ended up sitting between Ron and women who were angry with him.

“You love her, don’t you lad?” Simmons asked, her tone softening.

“Yes,” Ron replied stiffly.

“And she loves you, doesn’t she?”

Ron said nothing, and Simmons kicked the back of the chair in front of her, making the man sitting there turn with an irritated look that she completely ignored. “Don’t be a git, you idiot. Of course she loves you. I’ve seen her here, bringing you lunch even when she’s half-corpse with exhaustion. Girls don’t do that for boys they don’t love. Think of that the next time she gets in your face about your bleeding socks or whatnot.”

“It’s a bit more serious than socks.”

“If it isn’t more important than she is, then it doesn’t matter if you’re talking about World War Three. Let it go.”

Harry cast a quick tempus charm, wondering where the hell Malfoy was and why he suddenly seemed to be swimming in relationship drama at every turn. Six minutes until the hour. Knowing Malfoy, he would be here in precisely sixty seconds.

Ron looked at Simmons, his misery suddenly all too clear. “So I’m just supposed to do whatever she says? She gets her way from now on? She wins and I lose?”

“That’s a dangerous way to think about a relationship,” she said. “As soon as you start planning for someone to lose, you both have.” Simmons peered into his face. “What does she want that’s so hard to give?”

Ron was silent for a very long minute, during which time Harry saw a range of emotions cross his face—anger turned to confusion and then, slowly, comprehension. Ron then said softly, “She wants me to trust her.”

“Is she a selfish sort of person?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not remotely.”

“Has she ever hurt you on purpose?”

“No,” Ron said.

Harry decided not to remind him of the incident with the attack birds during sixth year.

“Then trust her,” Simmons said, with a nod that meant _there, problem solved._

Ron shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Gert.”

Simmons shook her head wearily. “Bloody Gryffindors. Brave as all hell when it comes to wandering in front of a hex, but Merlin forbid they risk their hearts. Fix it, Weasley. Or I’ll be speaking with your mother. And if Granger gives you any more lip, send her to me and I’ll sort her out, you just see if I don’t.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ron said meekly.

Simmons made a huffing sound and faced forwards. Harry spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth.

“Is that all I had to say this whole time? Threaten you with your mother?” he asked innocently.

“Shut it,” Ron said, flushing.

Harry started to tease him again, but the atmosphere in the room abruptly changed, a wave of silence rushing through the crowd from the door outward. Malfoy had clearly arrived, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see him coming down the steps, briefcase in hand, wearing a light gray suit with a navy tie. He looked cool and remote, brisk and professional. He opened his briefcase on the table at the front of the room, seemingly perfectly comfortable with the hostile stares of so many people, and proceeded to calmly unpack his notes and place them upon the lectern.

“Good morning,” he began, finally looking up. “My name is Draco Malfoy, and—”

“We know who you are, Malfoy,” someone called from behind Harry, male and bitter.

“That’s nice,” Malfoy said, not missing a beat. “We’re here today to discuss the potions you’re most likely to come into contact with out in the field. Some of these have been showing up with increasing frequency in potions houses, and the Ministry feels that it is time to address the risks head-on. We’ll talk about how these potions are used to set traps and how best to approach them. These potions are all Dark, and they—”

“You’d know about Dark potions and how they get used by killers, wouldn’t you?” the same heckler called. A murmur swept through the crowd, a low, ugly noise reminiscent of a bitter wind through an open floo. Harry watched Marrow, the Head of the Auror Office, turn around to survey the room from his seat in the front row, looking for whoever was interrupting. The shadows in the back of the hall made this an impossibility.

“I should hope so, as that knowledge might save the life of someone in this room if I’m given the chance to impart it,” Malfoy said evenly.

“You picked an interesting time to start worrying about that.”

Harry licked his lips. That was a different speaker, a woman this time, and now the murmur that went through the crowd was louder, trickling forwards. Marrow stood, heading up the stairs, but before he got there, someone said something from the very back of the lecture hall where he or she sat concealed in the shadows. It wasn’t a yell or a cry; there wasn’t even that much anger in it. Just two words, plainly spoken, the words that Harry suspected most of them were already thinking anyway.

“Death Eater,” the voice said, and the energy in the room shifted.

Harry spared a look at Ron, his stomach in knots, and found his best friend’s expression concerned. “This is going to get ugly in a second,” Ron said.

One of the Aurors in the front row twisted around in her chair and called, “Would you lot knock it off? Some of us don’t want to be here all weekend!”

“And some of us don’t want to take lessons from a fucking Death Eater!” someone yelled back.

Marrow had not yet reached the rear section of the hall, but Harry’s instinct was to nip this in the bud before it could snowball. He stood, turned, and shot a _Lumos Maxima_ up into the air, lighting the whole space up and eradicating the protection of anonymity for the protestors. Immediately, half the noise vanished, and more than a few people sank back in their chairs with expressions of sudden innocence.

“Thank you, Potter,” Marrow said, sounding testy that Harry had intervened. Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. He didn’t want to undermine his boss, but he wasn’t about to let Malfoy get mobbed, either.

The first heckler, however, would not be so easily curtailed.

“We know what you are,” he said, and the rest of the mutters fell, as if the others were more than willing to let him speak for all of them. Now that the area was lit, Harry recognized the speaker all too easily. It made sense that it would be Benedict Torris, Harry thought, grimacing. His daughter had been paralyzed in a Death Eater raid a few weeks before the Battle of Hogwarts, and his need to track down Dark sympathizers had bordered on zealotry ever since. Ron’s mouth twisted into a curl of understanding, but his eyes remained tight with wariness, and even Simmons sighed.

“You’re a filthy murderer,” Torris said, his words carrying easily over the heads of the witnesses.

Malfoy inhaled sharply, then said in a clear voice, “I’m guilty of many things, but murder isn’t one of them.”

“Not through lack of trying,” Ron muttered dryly, but when Harry glanced at him he seemed resigned rather than angry.

“Liar!” Torris bit out, voice thick with rage.

“Auror Torris,” Marrow said, clearly torn between anger and sympathy. “This isn’t the time or the place. Step outside. Now.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Torris snapped, ignoring Marrow and Malfoy, and looking directly at Harry, who still stood facing him. Torris’s tone was at once angry and hurt and somehow beseeching. As if he thought Harry alone would understand his pain and reasoning. “We can’t trust anything he says. He’s probably used that potion on innocents. He’s—”

“Whatever he used to be, he’s helping us take down Dark Wizards and Witches now,” Harry interrupted. “That’s what matters, Torris. We use the tools we’ve got to take them down. We can't afford to turn away resources.”

“He’s one of them,” Torris hissed. He abruptly stood, body vibrating like a strung-tight coil.

“Torris, you’re done,” Marrow snapped. “Leave the hall, now, or you will face disciplinary action—”

“I’m done?” Torris cried. Spittle flew as his rage thickened his words. “You’re taking _his_ side? After everything he’s done? Despite what he _is_?”

His hand twitched in the general direction of his pocket, and everything seemed to slow down; Harry had plenty of time to think _shit_ and turn to the side in a dueling stance, and hate the idea that he might be about to fight a man who had a distinctly excellent reason to hate a Death Eater, former or otherwise, and Marrow was lifting an admonishing hand, and Ron was moving his feet so he could stand, already prepared to have Harry’s back, even if he might not think Malfoy worth protecting, and then it all stopped.

Still standing at the front of the room, Malfoy flicked his wand almost casually and an enormous, grotesque photograph appeared on the screen behind him, horrific enough that it took Harry a few seconds to even realize what it was a picture of. The oval of red and white on the screen had been a face once, but now it was hardly recognizable; a corrosive potion was eating through the surface not unlike acid, tunneling deep and spreading fast. Smoke wafted upward as the body jerked. Fat ran off in rivulets and the nose caved with a small spray of fluids. Skin slipped like liquid as blood dripped and the eye sockets collapsed.

Harry wasn’t the only one to retch. Gasps and soft cries of shock and horror filled the room. Torris stumbled back into his chair and bent over, nearly heaving.

“This is what happens when someone enters a room filled with the fumes of _Obsequia Termina_ ,” Malfoy said icily, his skin white, his eyes vicious. Harry swallowed; he recognized that expression and it gave him chills. Combined with the shock of the photograph, Malfoy’s nearly-frightening coldness easily curtailed the room into instant silence. “This is what I’ve been hired to stop. Dark Potioneers like to leave this virulent little potion behind in a cauldron when they abandon a house. Plenty of time for the fumes to build. All it takes is one uneducated Auror to open a door and this is what you get.” He gestured to the sickening image, which recycled back to the beginning, prompting averted, sickened faces.

“This is what I am here to stop,” Malfoy said again, the words ringing with purpose. Harry didn’t think anyone could doubt his honesty. “If any of you have someone else you can go to in order to learn how to keep this from happening to you or one of your colleagues, by all means, feel free to go. If, on the other hand, you would like to get down to the business of investigating potion houses without having your flesh melt off, stay. But choose now, because we have a lot to cover.”

Malfoy held Torris’s gaze for a long, tense minute, utterly unintimidated, utterly out of patience, and looking, for all the world, like a man very much capable of the cold-blooded violence of which Torris had accused him. The Auror stared back, the hatred in his scrutiny untouched, even if his aggression had been shocked into subsiding. Torris made his way out of the aisle, his movements jerky. After a moment there was the sound of shuffling and bodies moving as others followed—Harry counted six altogether. They snaked past Marrow, who gave Harry a pointed glance— _you’re in charge—_ before trailing them out.

Malfoy watched them go before flicking his wand again, and the image vanished. “Thank you, Potter, but you can sit down.”

Harry did so, legs numb, feeling slightly sick. He could feel Ron’s eyes on him and didn’t dare meet the speculation in his gaze. His heart pounded wildly; the thought of Malfoy getting hurt had struck him razor-sharp, and directly on the heels of that came a roar of guilt at Ron’s immediate, instinctive support.

Harry felt as though something had cleaved him in two, and all he could think was that this situation could not continue.

Malfoy put up another image, this one a flow chart, and as he discussed the five key points to keep in mind when approaching possible potion threats, his voice sounded remarkably even. His eyes flickered hard over the class and his spine remained straight. He seemed in control, and as he spoke his anger faded further, but Harry knew it wasn’t gone.

He remembered the expression Malfoy had worn when he put up the image of that corpse. He’d seen it twice before, both times directed at himself. Once when Malfoy stomped on his face on the Hogwarts Express in sixth year, breaking his nose. Once in a Hogwarts bathroom, just months later, right before he’d attempted to cast an Unforgivable.

Malfoy had handled this confrontation just fine, but he’d done it by tapping into the part of himself he’d come to hate, something he likely wouldn’t forgive himself for. And as Harry watched the other man discuss murderous potions as if nothing at all had happened, he suspected that Malfoy wasn’t nearly as calm as he appeared.

*

Despite his talk with Angie that morning, Harry hesitated to bring his concerns about Draco’s behavior since the accident to Hermione. There were several reasons for this. First, he knew Hermione, and that meant that as soon as she got involved, everything would escalate, and it wouldn’t end until there’d been diagnostics and mind-healing and arguments and _you-can’t-afford-to-blow-this-off-Harry._ Second, however much he valued his friendship with Angie, she didn’t know him as well as his best friends did, and that meant that she hadn’t quite been able to scare him into action.

Talking to Ron and Hermione made things real, and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to face that yet. The idea of something being seriously—perhaps permanently—wrong with Draco had him sick to his stomach, and Harry had never been someone for whom it was easy to just talk about his emotions. No, he admitted wryly, he was more of a bottler, someone who needed to get well and truly furious before the lid would fly off, and then woe be the unfortunate individual who happened to be standing nearby when he lost his temper.

And finally, he hadn’t said anything because he’d realized, with a burst of fear, that Draco might not allow Hermione to help.

After all, Draco had been lying to him for days about things both large and small. Whatever was going on, he clearly did not want anyone else interfering.

So Harry didn’t go to either of his friends. He waited.

And he watched.

*

It was a lucky thing that Harry was out seeing Teddy Lupin and Andromeda Tonks when the Creature returned from the Manor, because otherwise there would’ve been epic drama. The Creature’s robes had the heft that wool only got when sodden, and in this case snow alone hadn’t caused the increase in the weight. Draco refused, however, to consider just how much blood must’ve been spilled to make for such a tangible difference.

As he huddled in that small, dark hollow of his mind, Draco kept seeing flashes of what the Creature had done, images that crawled inside of him and refused to let him hide. His mother’s white hands, always so graceful and feminine, clenched into claws as she tried to drag herself across the hardwood floor; the pale hair, perfectly coiffed, half out of its style and stained red; the shattered crystal vase lying in a pool of water amid crumpled pink Camellias. And the sounds—the small mewling cries and high-pitched gasps and inelegant, thick grunts. All sounds that his delicate, cultured mother should never make.

She’d said his name once, somewhere in the middle of it. Just once, spoken with quiet confusion and pleading through broken lips. He had never heard his name like that, and he found himself wondering if that was what begging had sounded like to Dark Lord, that sick-sweet mixture of _why_ and _please_ and _save me._

The Creature stripped, shoving Its sticky robes deep into the hamper with the other bloody garments, then paused. It dumped the hamper over, pulling out the older clothes and robes and shoving them to one side before packing all the rest back into the hamper and setting upright. It stared at the clothes for a moment, then set them aside in a pile on the floor.

 **We’ll deal with those after lunch,** It thought.

When It had showered and re-dressed (once more in Muggle clothes—jeans and a jumper), It headed down to the kitchen for something to eat, humming to Itself all the while.

Halfway through a peanut butter sandwich—something that Draco did not enjoy, as the texture of peanut butter had always reminded him of paste—an owl hooted from beyond the kitchen window. With a scrape of chair legs against the tile, the Creature went to open the window, untying the letter from the bird’s leg and offering it a small bit of bread in gratitude. The owl ate happily, waiting while the Creature opened the envelope. Two pieces of parchment were inside, one bearing the crest of the Ministry of Magic on the letterhead, and the other the symbol of Gringotts. Draco read over the Creature’s shoulder as It looked over the Ministry letter, which read:

 

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_A spot has been reserved for you on the Portkey listed below. A Gringotts Credit Slip has been included in this mailing for your convenience and should be returned to our office for deposit upon receipt. Exceeding this deadline may result in cancelation or reassignment of your reservation._

_Please plan to arrive at least sixty minutes early for international trips, as there will be customs and security processes to complete in advance. Refunds for missed Portkeys are not available without notarized proof of extenuating circumstances._

_Departure Location: Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London, England._

_Day and Time of Departure: Sunday, January 21 st, 7:20 a.m._

_Arrival Location: Assemblée Législative de la Magie, Emirande Département, Emirande, France_

_Total Price of One-Way Portkey: 25 Galleons, 12 Sickles, 4 Knuts_

_You may arrange a return trip upon arrival at your destination or in advance via owl; currently there are same-day and next day options available, but be aware that spots fill up quickly. Thank you for choosing the Ministry of Magic for your travel needs._

_Lucy Latitaude_

_International Travel Representative_

_Floo 37B, Portkey Office,_

_Department of Magical Transportation_

Tomorrow, Draco thought with a sinking feeling. It was far sooner than he'd expected.

The other scrap of parchment was, indeed the credit slip, and Draco provided his Gringotts vault number and password without hesitation. The Creature sent that off with the owl and sat back down to finish Its meal.

As It licked the remnants of peanut butter from Its fingers, the Creature thought, **You seem properly cowed.**

Draco gave the equivalent of a mental shrug.

**Then it’s time to discuss magic. We have until tomorrow morning. You will spend that time training me on any spell that I choose, and you will not hinder me in any way or—**

_Yes, I know. You’ll destroy everything I’ve ever loved._

The words held absolutely zero attitude. He carefully avoided thinking about flying onto Malfoy property earlier, and concentrated on showing complete subservience. Draco wanted it clear that he knew he had been beaten. He had nothing to gain from bravado and everything to lose, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have a lot of experience groveling at the feet of a megalomaniacal madman. The Creature’s casual cruelty made it all too easy to project the right demeanor.

And it wasn’t wholly an act, after all. The guilt and pain shredding him right now were nothing compared to what it would feel like if the Creature attacked Harry.

 _Whatever you want,_ Draco thought, empty and cold and carefully thinking about nothing at all.

For a long moment, the Creature remained silent. Then, slowly, as if It expected a virulent reaction, It thought, **Then we’ll begin with those blood-stained robes.**

It went back upstairs, pulling Draco’s wand out at the same time. It spread Draco’s clothes out on the floor, the robes leaving smears of blood on the hardwood.

**All right. Let’s begin.**

_I don’t know if this will work. You might not be able to access my magic._

**I will.** The Creature’s mental voice held zero doubt, and Draco wondered how It had come by that information. **I think we’ll burn them.**

_No. I mean, it’s your first time casting something, and stuff goes wrong all the time. If you can’t control it, you’ll set the whole cottage on fire and it’ll be really suspicious. A cleaning charm will work just fine and there’s no risk._

**You’re very responsible,** the Creature thought politely, then snickered. **All right, little one, I’m eager to learn. Teach me. What do I do?**

Draco found the malicious playfulness vaguely familiar; he’d heard Snape employ that tone against Gryffindors—namely Harry and Longbottom—more than once. If it wasn’t directed at him, he might even have found it pleasantly nostalgic. Instead, he thought, _Concentrate on the blood. Only the blood. Picture it in your mind so that the spell knows what you’re aiming at. You might have to start small—do one section at a time._

**Fine. I’m doing that. Now what?**

Draco would never know just what happened then. He certainly didn’t think anything; the Creature was listening intently and would’ve heard. The only explanation was that, despite years of trying to live like a decent person, Draco’s personality was inherently deceptive. What happened was instinctive.

What Draco should have given It to cast was _Tergeo,_ which was the cleaning charm that could siphon liquids out of fabric.

What Draco actually gave It to cast (because of inborn, natural, unpremeditated duplicity) was _Obfucus,_ the concealment charm used to hide things from view.

He watched blankly, barely able to comprehend what he’d done, as the Creature turned Draco’s wand on the fabric.

 ** _Obfucus,_** the Creature repeated obediently.

The blood from the shirt It had been wearing during the attack on Webb in Knockturn Alley wavered a moment, then vanished.

The Creature seemed pleased. Draco carefully thought of nothing at all, instead adding, _Go on. Do the rest now._

The process continued, almost painfully slow and awkward, and Draco did not interfere.

 **That’s permanent, isn’t it?** The Creature asked, when the blood had been hidden on all the garments.

_Yes. Now, we’ll need something different for the floor. We don’t want to strip the finish or Harry will notice. Use Scourgify._

Draco carefully kept himself from thinking too loudly about why he’d felt the need to clean the floor for real; he was simply aware, in a distant sort of way, that, unlike cleaning charms, concealment charms required some real power to take in any long-term way. It was highly likely that it would be only a matter of days—perhaps even hours—before the concealment charms faded.

He watched as the Creature slid the garments onto hangers and tucked them into Draco’s side of the armoire.

Maybe Draco was a class A fuckup. Well, actually, there was no maybe about that. Draco fucked things up. He did things wrong, and people got hurt. But if there was one thing he’d learned to do right over the years, it was how to control himself, and he applied every last bit of skill he possessed to this moment.

And he kept his mind empty and calm and beaten.

**Now. Let’s discuss the Cruciatus Curse.**

_You’ll need to feel hatred for this one,_ Draco thought loudly, if reluctantly.

The Creature laughed.

**Not a problem.**

*

“Fish and chips?” Ron asked, straightening with a grimace and arching his back; four hours was a long time in an uncomfortable Ministry lecture hall. The chairs were torture machines, even with cushioning charms.

All around them Aurors, trainees and officials were packing up notes and chattering. Harry gave the crowd a wary glance but didn’t sense anything amiss, not that he really expected to. Considering the pyrotechnics at the beginning, the remainder of the session had been downright anticlimactic. There had even been twenty minutes of discussion, filled with respectful questions and debate. If Harry wasn’t mistaken, Malfoy would be leaving more than a few converted minds behind him when his job here ended.

Without realizing it, his gaze had circled back to the man in question; Malfoy stood speaking seriously with several students, all of whom were listening with fairly rapt attention. Harry couldn’t blame them. Malfoy’s eyes were sharp but considering and he nodded slowly as one of the students asked him something.

One hand was locked, white-knuckled, on the edge of the lectern.

“Harry?” Ron asked, touching his arm, and he cued back in to his best mate.

“Yeah?”

“Fish and chips?”

“Uh, you know, I’m not actually that hungry,” Harry lied. “I think, actually, that I’m going to hang here, maybe catch up on a bit of paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” Ron asked incredulously. “It’s Saturday.”

“Yeah. But I’ve got about a dozen 64/12s waiting for me, and some of them are already past due. It’s been stressing me out and I think I’d enjoy the rest of the weekend more if I got a few of them finished. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner, though, yeah?”

“If you’re sure. I could bring you back something if you’d rather eat here.” Despite Ron’s casual tone, his blue eyes wandered to Malfoy briefly before returning to Harry. A slight crease formed between his eyebrows.

“Really, I’m okay, but thanks. Look, I’ll walk you out.” Harry clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder with a definitive air of _conversation over_. He began to ease down his aisle, slinging his cloak over one arm. His office lay in the same general direction as the floos, so he would have to walk a ways to pull off the ruse, but that was all right. It would give the stragglers a chance to siphon off, and when he doubled back, Malfoy might be ready to go.

“How are things?” Ron asked as they walked.

Harry shrugged. “I think Hermione will—”

“I don’t mean Hermione. I mean you. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah?” They caught up to the line of staff waiting to floo home and came to a halt. Ron watched the people ahead of them but his attention was very definitely on Harry. “Really? Not feeling, oh, I don’t know, maybe a little lonely?”

Harry studied the toes of his shoes—they were scuffed almost to the point of rattiness, and there was a small worn spot near his little toe that would be a hole soon. Time for new ones.

“Harry?” Ron asked.

Harry looked up, meeting his friend’s concerned gaze with a smile that a blind person could’ve seen was fake, and knew he was quickly running out of time to address the issue of Malfoy. The last thing he needed was for Ron to see something and catch Harry in a lie. He even contemplated yanking Ron into a nearby office and spilling the truth right then.

There was just one problem with that scenario.

Ron’s third question (right after _are you mental?_ and _did he give you anything to drink?)_ would be _what does it mean?_

And giving him the truth about that would require that Harry actually know the truth.

“We’ll catch up one of these days,” he hedged.

“Sure.”

“Soon. A beer, maybe.”

“You sure you don’t want to go now?”

“I’ve got…well, all that paperwork.”

“Right.” Ron nodded slowly. “Well, I’m up. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Burrow.”

“Yeah. See you then.”

The guilt he felt at waving Ron off in the green light of the fire was strong. The lure of Malfoy—surprisingly capable, hauntingly vulnerable—was stronger.

The corridors echoed emptily by the time Harry got back to the hall, and he thought for a second that he might have missed Malfoy leaving. But no, he stood beside the podium at the front of the empty hall, arms crossed, head bowed, quiet and still.

Harry stood at the top of the stairs by the exit, peering down at him, wondering just what it was about this man that had Harry lying to his best friend. Malfoy was gorgeous, that was true, and the sex was, well, more than decent. But it wasn’t like they were going to be the stars of an epic romance. They didn’t really laugh together or hang out or really enjoy each other’s company all that much. Other than knowing that Malfoy’s mental health was a little tipsy and his personality was constipated, Harry didn’t even know him all that well.

It should’ve been easy to leave. To just go floo to Ron’s and explain his temporary insanity and let the whole mess fall into past tense.

But he could see the undefended nape of Malfoy’s neck from here, and something in his gut protested that it was stupid to try to go somewhere else when what he needed was right here.

So instead of leaving he hovered in the doorway, perfectly all right with blocking the exit so that Malfoy was forced to talk to him.

“Fish and chips?” Harry asked, blithely stealing Ron’s idea. Malfoy didn’t seem surprised to hear his voice; he just sighed.

“Thank you, but no,” Malfoy said, shoulders tightening. He lifted his head and turned, collecting his briefcase. “I’m not particularly in the mood for conversation.”

“It’s a good thing that I asked you to eat instead of talk, then, isn’t it?”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, coming up the stairs toward doorway where Harry was loitering. He would’ve passed for any other professional on his way home if not for the nervy tension in his face. “I wouldn’t be good company.”

“I don’t care.” Now that Malfoy was closer, Harry could see the tight lips and creased forehead. Tension had aged the other man five years since the seminar had started. He’d even pulled his tie loose around his neck and unbuttoned that top button, something Harry had never seen him do when events weren’t heading in an overtly sexually-themed direction. “At least let me stop by for a bit. Sit on the sofa. Play some wizard’s chess.”

“I’m fine.”

“No chess then. We’ll just sit there and stare at each other. It’ll be awkward, but what the hell. Let’s do it.”

“Why are you doing this? We’re sex. That’s it.”

Harry heard the tremble in that posh voice, much as Malfoy was trying to hide it, and stepped out of the way. “Nope. Time to leave,” he said. He swung an arm wide, encouraging the other man forwards. “Let’s go.”

Malfoy sighed again, apparently defeated, and began to walk. They headed down the echoing corridor toward the floos.

“It’s easier when there’s something to focus on,” Malfoy said.

“Makes sense.”

“I don’t have a distraction now.” He sounded like he was warning Harry off of something.

“I can see that.”

Malfoy made a thin sort of growl. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Well, I would be, if you would actually _say_ something instead of hinting around it.”

“I’m saying I’m probably going to have an attack. Sometime today. Maybe soon.”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I got that from all those polite _piss off_ comments you were making.” Harry smiled at him, making sure it was clear that he was unbothered by the idea of it. “I’m not stupid. I get what you’re saying.”

“No, you don’t,” Malfoy snapped, and heaved an enormous breath. When he spoke again, he was calmer. “I don’t want you there for it.”

“That was also clear. And tough.”

Malfoy stopped short in the hallway, which forced Harry to stop and look back. Malfoy’s expression was twisted, almost as if he were in pain. “I don’t want you to see me that way.”

Harry shook his head. The stupid, superficial bastard. “I’m not going to think less of you, Malfoy.”

“I do,” Malfoy said flatly, staring at the floor as if captivated by the tile.

“Then you’re dumb,” Harry said, just as flatly. “Can we go or are we going to stand here and wait until the panic attack hits?”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, soft and almost begging.

“No. I’m not leaving you. So get used to it. And get moving. This building gives me the creeps when it’s empty like this.”

Malfoy’s eyes were enormous and impossible to read. He didn’t move for the longest time. One hand formed a fist, tight and bloodless, and then he let go, shook it out. When he dipped his chin once in a compliant nod and began walking again, Harry felt that some unidentified bridge had been crossed, although he sure as fuck couldn’t have said where it led.

They went the rest of the way in silence. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, and some peculiar urge made him put a hand at the small of Malfoy’s back, a gesture so inherently protective and guiding that he couldn’t manage to lie to himself about what it meant. He stepped into the fireplace first, and that was fortunate in the end, because it gave him a moment to orient himself in the cottage’s sitting room upon arriving.

Because the second Malfoy came through, the attack hit.

A myriad of emotions crossed his face, almost too rapidly to discern. First was certainty, followed swiftly by humiliation, chased by resignation.

Then all of it vanished, replaced by undiluted terror.

He shook his head once, twice, and said, “Fuck.” His breathing quickened to a frightening clip within seconds and he stumbled away, dropping his briefcase and bending over, hands on his thighs as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“No,” he moaned.

“It’s all right,” Harry said. He kept his voice low and composed, despite the adrenaline flooding his own system. He tried to remember everything he’d read in the book he’d bought, mentally thumbing through the section on how to treat panic attacks. Staying calm was most important, he thought, but that was a lot easier to do when someone wasn’t falling apart in front of you. Consciously he knew this wouldn’t really _hurt_ Malfoy, which went a long way toward helping him keep his cool, but fear was infectious, and he had a strong, if daft, urge to glance over his shoulder to see if something was there.

More concretely, he was just plain worried: Malfoy had gone eggshell white and he looked nearly as fragile. Sweat had already popped out on his skin and his eyes were far too wide, darting around as if to find a suitable threat to explain his alarm. He began to pant.

“You’re safe,” Harry reminded him, feeling sort of stupid but not sure what else to say. “It’s the panic attack. Nothing here will actually harm you.”

He waited, wryly, for Malfoy to snap at him, to make it clear that he’d been through this countless times and did not need Harry Potter, of all people, to state the obvious.

Instead, Malfoy looked up at him helplessly. A drop of sweat rolled from his hairline, and as he straightened and turned toward the stairs, he nearly tumbled off his feet. The lack of coordination seemed almost obscene in a man who usually moved with downright grace, and Harry dropped his cloak in order to catch him, downright frightened as Malfoy struggled against him.

“Don’t, please. I can’t, I can’t breathe, I need my potion, have to get it, fuck.” The words came out choked. Malfoy’s entire body began shaking violently. Harry let him pull back, but kept a grip on his elbow, his own hands trembling.

“Where?” Harry asked.

“Bathroom,” Malfoy managed. “Upstairs.”

“We’ll get it together. You’re going to be all right,” he said, walking them toward the stairs as slowly as he dared, not wanting to add a sense of urgency, but Malfoy sounded like he was having a heart attack, and it was sort of freaking him out. Even more disturbing was the fact that Malfoy was clinging to him. Harry considered just picking him up entirely, but thought Malfoy might not forgive him for it once the attack passed. As it must, he thought, trying to hide his shock. No one could stand this for much longer, surely.

That first day, when Malfoy had come unraveled in his arms at the Ministry and then freaked out, Harry had thought of his reaction as a panic attack. That had been a lack of education and experience at work, clearly. _This_ was a panic attack, and he’d underestimated the severity of what that meant considerably.

Goober came around the corner and his bug-eyes blinked fan-like lashes once, then twice, and then the little elf disappeared, only to reappear seconds later with a vial of purple potion. “Master,” the elf squeaked.

“Thank you,” Malfoy rasped, and Harry shook his head. This man utterly perplexed him. Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have shown gratitude to a house elf for saving his life, even if under threat of the Cruciatus, and now he used up what little oxygen he had to say thank you for the simple act of handing something over.

Malfoy extended fingers that fumbled; Harry slapped that trembling hand away and took the vial himself. The last thing they needed was for Malfoy to drop the damn thing.

“I’m not dying,” Malfoy said. “I’m not.”

“I know that,” Harry said, before realizing that Malfoy was talking to himself. “No, you’re not dying. It just feels like you are.” He wrenched the stopper from the vial. “Head back.”

The immediate compliance worried him more than anything else so far, although the way Malfoy wobbled against Harry’s arm wasn’t exactly a comfort either.

The attack was getting worse even as Malfoy swallowed the potion. His eyes rolled, and his knees gave out so abruptly that Harry couldn’t quite hang onto him. They sank to the floor together.

“Five minutes,” Goober said, wringing his hands. “That’s the most it ever takes once the potion is swallowed.”

“Okay,” Harry said to Malfoy. “Five minutes. That’s not so bad. Five minutes is nothing. We can do that.”

And in the normal world, that was true. But here, in the land where Malfoy’s body was convinced he was being chased by an invisible tiger or falling off of ten-story building or choking on a piece of meat, five minutes was fucking _forever_.

“I thought they would hate me,” Malfoy babbled, breathing so quickly that he took at least two breaths for every phrase, “I knew they would, it hasn’t changed, nothing’s changed, I’m always going to be hated, and I should be. That picture, Merlin, I just put it up, horrific, and part of me liked it, liked putting them in their place, liked the way they cringed, what the _fuck_ kind of person does that, Potter?”

His words were thin, his wheezes getting desperate, his lips turning faintly blue. With a gut-wrenching pang, Harry realized that Malfoy was on the verge of passing out.

“Listen to me,” Harry said, using the Auror voice he only ever brought out when a situation was on the brink of violence and he couldn’t allow anything but wholehearted obedience from whoever he was speaking to. “You did nothing wrong today. You did what you had to in order to defuse something that could have gotten very ugly, and you reminded them that they were there to learn things that might save their lives. And I’d say fewer people hate you now than four hours ago, because you impressed them. You did. Christ, you impressed me. You didn’t look scared or anything. You just handled it, smooth and professional. It was good, Malfoy. You did good.”

“I can’t breathe,” Malfoy cried, soft and filled with fear and quiet anguish, staring into Harry’s face as if the secret to peace rested within it.

So Harry kissed him.

Malfoy’s mouth was dry and unresponsive, his lips downright cold, but his breathing hitched, then caught, the wild rhythm of it stuttering. Harry took it as a sign and eased Malfoy gently but firmly into his lap, wrapping one arm around the smaller man. His other hand cupped a perfect cheek, stroking the smooth skin with his thumb and angling Malfoy’s jaw toward his.

“Easy,” he murmured against Malfoy’s mouth. “Breathe with me. Nice and slow. Feel my chest moving? Match your breathing to mine. Go with it.”

He could feel Malfoy struggling to obey, and nearly at the same time, the other man’s hands came up around Harry, fingers clenching tight in the fabric of Harry’s shirt. He shuddered, making small noises of distress.

“Why are you doing this?” he gasped.

“Because I can,” Harry said. “And I’m not leaving. Also, this is probably not the time for that conversation, so maybe you should shut up and concentrate on breathing.” He pressed his lips against Malfoy’s again, slow and sweet, the kiss of a friend or a parent. Asking for nothing, and giving everything. Malfoy’s lips moved under his, although he wasn’t sure if it was a response to the kiss or an unvoiced protest, but with his mouth closed, he was forced to breathe through his nose, which slowed his panting down considerably.

So Harry kissed him again. And then again.

Snogging had not been one of the strategies listed in the Panic Disorder book, something which he did not hold against the writer. Any health professional who saw this would probably want to smack Harry and call him a dirty pervert, but it was working, so he refused to feel too guilty.

When Malfoy was reliably breathing through his nose, Harry backed off—somewhat regretfully—from the whole kissing treatment and simply pressed the other man close, keeping their chests in contact.

“In with the good air,” Harry said. “Come on. Breathe at my pace. Slow down. Out with the bad.”

Malfoy followed in kind so Harry kept going, exaggerating his rhythm to slow Malfoy down and pressing little kisses to his mouth whenever it seemed that things were beginning to speed up again.

As he did this, Harry scrambled for one of the calming exercises he’d read about. Polishing silver was clearly out; Malfoy could barely keep his head up. “Um, let’s count. You want to count?”

He received little more than a bursting exhalation in response: “Onetwothreefour—”

Way too easy, he thought. “How about by threes? Something to focus on, yeah? Let’s start with three.”

“Six,” Malfoy whispered. “Nine.”

“Good boy,” Harry murmured. “You’re doing so much better already.”

And he was, Harry realized, relief sweeping through him so strongly he felt almost weak. Malfoy’s breathing had, indeed, begun to slow, and his lips had begun to pink up again.

They counted to a hundred by threes, a process which worked pretty damn well, because it forced Malfoy to concentrate on something else and no one could just rattle off _two hundred forty, two hundred forty three, two hundred forty six_ and so on so quickly as to allow for hyperventilation. By two hundred the shudders faded and Malfoy’s galloping pulse had returned to a more bearable pace. By the time they got to three hundred, the potion had thoroughly kicked in and the attack seemed mostly resolved.

Still, Malfoy remained in Harry’s arms, sagging against him in sheer exhaustion. Understandable, Harry thought, because he felt pretty fucking tired himself after all of that, and his body hadn’t spent the last five and a half minutes convinced he was on the verge of dying. He realized he’d been carding his fingers through Malfoy’s hair and couldn’t remember when he’d started. He didn’t even care. He could’ve stayed there forever, holding that lean, limp body close, his lips resting against Malfoy’s temple.

“I should get up,” Malfoy said eventually, voice so weary and dry that he sounded half-dead.

“Let me take care of you,” Harry whispered, lips brushing a delicately shaped ear.

“We’re just sex,” Malfoy mumbled into Harry’s throat.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry said. “Ready for a nap?”

Malfoy nodded, lifting his head and pulling away sluggishly.

Harry might have been able to resist the fear and the physical vulnerability, but the bleakness was something else. And nothing could have prepared him for the wrench in his gut when he saw the tears. The tears destroyed him.

Malfoy didn’t even bother to wipe his face. He just looked away.

Harry helped him up, dismayed by how shaky Malfoy was; he went a bit gray at the effort. With a burst of anger that Harry carefully hid, he thought, _fuck it, let him be pissed later,_ and collected Malfoy into his arms.

Malfoy didn’t even tense. On the contrary, he sighed once—what Harry thought was probably resignation, not comfort—and pressed his face into the curve of Harry’s throat.

Malfoy had his share of lean muscle; he wasn’t exactly light. But Harry managed well enough, stairs and all, and surprised himself with how much he enjoyed holding Malfoy like this. How much he liked being able to meet Malfoy’s needs.

No surprise that Malfoy’s bedroom could have defined the word _Spartan._ It matched the pristine décor of the rest of the cottage, and while it better suited Robot Malfoy than the fiery, prickly, real Malfoy that Harry preferred, he wasn’t about to complain. The bed was plenty large, the bedding a deep blue and luxuriantly soft when he lowered the other man down. He stripped Malfoy down to his black pants before shucking his own clothes and climbing in beside next to him. They lay in the weak shadows of the dim bedroom, quiet and still, and Harry felt contentment creep over him. Nothing about this thing with Malfoy was easy, and it was definitely going to mess up things with Ron, but in that moment, Harry couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. He cuddled Malfoy closer, pressing his lips against the back of that elegant neck, and thought _this is what it feels like to have what you want._

Just when Harry thought Malfoy must be asleep, he felt the smaller man shift against him.

“I’m so tired of it all,” Malfoy whispered. “It feels so heavy, and I can never put it down.”

“I’ll help you carry it,” Harry murmured back.

“And when you go?”

“Who says I will?”

“You’ll want to eventually,” Malfoy said.

Harry didn’t argue, but the frightening truth was that he wasn’t sure he _could_ leave anymore, even if he wanted to.

*

Harry and Draco were sitting at the kitchen table that night, eating in somewhat-comfortable silence, when the floo blazed and Ron stuck his head in. “Hey, Harry. Malfoy,” he said, sounding casual enough, although his lips were pinched. “Eating pasta, huh? I see you got some red sauce there. Nice.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his best mate’s forced pleasantries. Draco was looking at Ron as if he’d grown a second head, and Harry didn’t blame him. Ron wasn’t one to drop in and chat, so that was odd enough. And even when he stopped making inane chatter about utterly bland topics he seemed brutally awkward standing there in his trousers and button down, his hair mussed like he’d just pulled robes off over his head.

“Yeah, smells tasty,” Ron said.

“If you need to discuss secret Auror business in the other room, you can,” Draco said, then took another bite of his pasta. “I don’t mind being excluded.”

Ron faced Harry, wincing slightly. “Uh, I do need to borrow you for a minute, actually.”

Harry gave him a look that he hoped clearly conveyed the sentiment of “ _you suck at this,”_ and got to his feet. He nodded apologetically at Draco, who barely seemed bothered by the interruption. “Be right back.”

Draco didn’t reply, his attention already back on his noodles. Ron followed Harry into the sitting room, where his dark red Auror robes had been slung over the sofa. He waited while Harry closed the door to the kitchen, then cast _Muffliato._ Harry blinked.

“Is that necessary? He’s not going to eavesdrop.”

“What have you been doing today?” Ron asked.

Harry blinked, bewildered. “Seriously? You came over during dinner to ask me what I did today?”

Ron grinned, a little too widely. “Humor me.”

“I went to see Teddy and Andromeda,” he said.

“How long were you there?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Am I a suspect in something?”

“Will you answer me, Harry?” Ron asked. “Please?”

Harry studied his best friend—a smile on his face but pleading in his eyes—and said, “I went over at nine. We had brunch. Andromeda left for a bit to do some shopping since I was there to watch Teddy. I came home around three. Why?”

“Did Malfoy go with you?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He looked at Ron, who looked back, and this time Harry didn’t say a damn word, more than ready to let the silence last forever.

“Narcissa Malfoy was attacked at Malfoy Manor today,” Ron said grimly, all of his false geniality evaporating. “Someone beat the hell out of her, Harry. If she hadn’t had plans with a friend for a late lunch, she’d be dead.”

“Fuck,” Harry said, gaze immediately flitting to the kitchen door, beyond which Draco—incomprehensible, weirdly-acting Draco—was calmly eating dinner. Everything strange about the conversation faded from his attention as he focused on getting the information Draco would need. “Is she going to be all right? How bad is it?”

“I made arrangements to question her first thing tomorrow, assuming she’s conscious by then. She’s got a laundry list of injuries—skull fracture, a broken jaw, a separated shoulder and a whole host of other shit, not to mention so many fucking bruises she’s almost unrecognizable.”

“Draco’s going to be torn up,” Harry said, closing his eyes. He could picture the look on Draco’s face already, that stiff, pinched expression he got whenever he clung to his self-control, as if he thought that refusing to show a reaction might ease the pain somehow. And then the anxiety would hit. Fuck, he might even need a potion.

When he opened them, Ron had an odd look on his face.

“What?” Harry asked. “Is there something else?”

Still watching Harry closely, Ron asked, “Do you think he would know anything of use?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so. Last I heard, they hadn’t seen each other in years.”

“They were close when he was a kid, though, right? I mean, I know his parents were part of why he used to be such a prick, but wasn’t there something about Voldemort threatening his parents and that’s why he tried to kill Dumbledore?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it. He hasn’t told me much.”

“So tell me what you do know,” Ron said impatiently.

Harry flushed and snapped, “I _am_ telling you what I know.”

“Harry, listen to me. Diagnostics of her security show that she didn’t trigger the spell that opens the gate. That means the attacker somehow got past the wards, which are clearly cued to the Malfoy bloodline. Are you hearing me? Narcissa and your boyfriend are the only living Malfoys left, and whoever did it didn’t set off the wards.”

For a moment, they stood there looking at each other while Harry put it all together. His first reaction was to get mad; he couldn’t help that. He realized dimly that _Muffliato_ was for him, not Draco, because Ron had anticipated that Harry might end up yelling. Harry could feel the fury bubbling up in his throat, and he came painfully close to ripping Ron a new one for even _daring_ to suspect Draco in any way, shape, or form. The words _personal vendetta_ and _that’s his mother you’re accusing him of hurting_ and _if you can’t trust him, trust me_ all sprang to his lips.

And then he thought of eleven missing hours and mispronounced words and lies and Draco’s strange behavior. Harry had been at Andromeda’s all morning and part of the afternoon and he had no idea what Draco had been doing during that time.

The fury dried up and the words left him. He knew—he _knew_ —that Draco was incapable of such an act, but the evidence weighed heavy and for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, he wondered.

And Ron saw it. Those blue eyes narrowed.

“It wasn’t him,” Harry said quietly.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Then explain it to me, mate. So I can be sure too.”

“He doesn’t talk about himself much, and especially not about the war or right after it—hell, I’ve got two years in this relationship and I wouldn’t even know how his trial ended if I hadn’t looked it up myself. He’s a secretive bastard. But I got the impression that leaving Narcissa was the only part of his separation from his old life that he really struggled with. He wouldn’t hurt her.”

What Harry didn’t say was that Draco still had nightmares about things he’d seen and done during the war, and even now, so long after he’d cut her out of his life, Harry occasionally heard him wake with a cry for his mother on his lips.

“More than that, Draco is one of the sharpest, most conniving people I know,” Harry added. “He would’ve thought about the wards. He would know that he’d be the main suspect if he just walked right in. Ron, you know that. He’s smart. Draco would’ve thought of the wards.”

“That occurred to me,” Ron said. “It’s too obvious for something he would do.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Ron said. “But I’d like to know what it was you were thinking of a moment ago.”

“What?” Harry asked, playing dumb.

“Whatever it was you thought of that made you realize I might be right.”

Harry just stared at him.

Ron sighed, the sound a rough combination of exasperation, irritation, and resignation. “I’m not saying a word to you about this. I don’t have to, right? Because you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Harry _did_ know. He was risking a lot by covering up Draco’s recent weirdness—assuming that Draco’s weirdness wasn’t just a series of fugues and the remnants of a bad concussion. Ron was risking just as much by not pushing, and eventually, if things headed in that direction, Ron would be in a hell of a shitty position. They both would, but especially Ron, who had been assigned the case. _I promise,_ Harry thought, looking at that round, freckled face, as beloved as a brother’s. _I promise that I won’t let you take the blame for anything._

But all he said was, “Thanks.”

Ron shook his head. “I’ve got Edwards looking into the nature of blood wards to see if there’s any way someone else could’ve gotten past them. But you should find out if there’s any chance something is up.”

Harry put a hand on Ron’s shoulder—calling Edwards in was a gift to Harry. The chances of finding that anyone besides Draco had gotten past blood wards was slim, but this would buy them time. Harry rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Bloody hell.”

“You want me to stay while you tell him?”

“No. I’ve got it.”

“Harry…”

He laughed, high and wild. “I can’t believe you’re asking if he would hurt me.”

Ron looked back at him steadily. “Would he?”

“No,” Harry snapped, then sucked in a calming breath. “He wouldn’t.”

“You told me once…” Ron broke off, huffed a breath, and stared at the ceiling as if he wished he were anywhere else having any other conversation. Finally he continued, “You told me once that he doesn’t love you.”

Harry couldn’t look at him anymore. “He doesn’t,” he admitted. “But he wouldn’t hurt me. He’s not the man everyone thinks he is. I know he used to be a Death Eater, Ron, but he wouldn’t hurt her. Or me. That’s not who he is anymore.”

“Then why did you hesitate?” Ron asked gently.

Harry didn’t say anything; he leaned against the sofa and tried to still his wobbly knees. He pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

“Is there something else I can do to help?” Ron asked.

Harry lowered his arms, feeling a moment’s affection for his friend. Ron looked tired and strained, and it was all on Harry’s behalf, he knew. Ron had never quite been able to bring himself to become friends with Draco, although he had admitted once—under the influence of a great deal of Knotgrass Mead—that Draco’s attempts to remake himself after the war had been both honorable and impressive. Their contact now was entirely based on Draco’s relationship with Harry, and while their interactions had always been somewhat forced on both sides, they’d been rather successful at maintaining the peace for Harry’s sake.

“You’re a good friend,” Harry said, trying to say it casually enough that Ron wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. “I know it’s not easy for you to be supportive of him.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ron said slowly. “But it gets a lot easier when I think of it as supporting you.” He paused a moment and Harry waited, sensing he wasn’t done. “That day when I said I was okay with the two of you…”

Harry recalled that day all too well. “Yeah?”

“I didn't believe you. About how much he meant to you, I mean. I thought…hell, mate, I thought you’d just been so lonely and hard-up for so long that you’d gone a bit mental and melodramatic. I only said what I did because I figured with enough time the two of you would flame out. It wasn't until the accident that I realized that you love him the way I love Hermione.”

Ron seemed a little shame-faced about revealing this secret, which struck Harry as amusing, because Harry had known this at the time; after learning how to read Draco’s manipulative mannerisms, Ron was as subtle as a purple elephant.

“I don’t like him,” Ron continued, “and even if he is innocent I'm probably never going to be okay with him. But even I can see that he’s the real thing for you. Of course I’m going to support you. God knows you’ve done enough of that with me and Hermione over the years.”

Harry smiled a little. “That’s true enough.”

Awkwardly, Ron rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “If he did it, we’ll get him help.”

“Ron…thanks, mate.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right. You can observe in the morning when I interview her, but that’s all. You can’t get involved in this, Harry, or it’ll call the whole investigation into question.”

“Yeah. I don’t want it to look like we’re covering anything up.” Harry took a second to feel like a disloyal shit, then said, “You might want to put someone on her door.”

“Already done. She’ll be alive to testify, don’t worry. Just be careful when you tell him.” Ron dropped _Muffliato_ , hesitated, and then called, “Good-night, Malfoy.”

“Good night,” Draco called back, and Harry winced. A yell through a door from a man who considered shouting from room to room the height of poor upbringing.

He waved Ron off but didn’t return immediately to the kitchen. Instead, he stood on the other side of the door and thought for several minutes. Finally, he returned to the kitchen with a ball of iron in his stomach. He sank into his chair heavily.

“Draco,” he began, watching Draco carefully, “Your mother was attacked today by an unknown assailant. She’s alive, but she’s very badly injured. She was found by a friend and taken to St. Mungo’s.”

“That’s very horrible. I hope she’ll be all right,” Draco said, which seemed an odd thing to say, a strangely, awkwardly, distantly formal thing to say, and then he immediately went back to eating with an unduly tolerant expression, as if Harry had mentioned he had just turned a page in a book and Draco was humoring him by not pointing out that there really wasn’t a need to mention that sort of thing.

“That’s…” Harry trailed off. He’d almost said “that’s it?” but something made him stop. Watching Draco calmly chew, a sense of certainty overcame him, one that was deep and strong and utterly unsettling.

Harry had been an Auror for years, and the training he’d undergone had been considerable. He’d learned to identify anomalies in behavior and circumstances, and he’d put a great deal of that training into practice. His training said that he should confront Draco, ask him questions, perhaps even take him in to the holding cells at the Ministry. But as much as he trusted his training, he trusted his instincts more, and his instincts said that the very last thing he should do was let on that Draco had done or said anything odd.

_He did it._

“Yes, it’s horrible,” he said finally, hoping his long silence hadn’t been too suspicious. “I know the two of you aren’t close, really, but if you’d like to see her, I guess we could go for a visit.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Draco said, wiping his lips neatly with a napkin. “It’s thoughtful of you, Potter, but I think it’s best that I maintain my distance. You understand.”

“Sure,” Harry said, keeping his voice easy. He picked up his fork and forced himself to take a bite of cold pasta. In fact, he ate the entire rest of his dinner and did the dishes and then watched an hour of telly with Draco pressed up beside him under a blanket. He laughed in all the right places and brushed his teeth and climbed into bed with a yawn.

And the whole time, his stomach felt like lead. He examined every word that came out of his mouth and analyzed everything he did, and wondered if he would be taking his boyfriend to Azkaban the next day on suspicion of attempted murder.

Lying in the dark with Draco warm beside him, Harry could admit (with guilt, heaps of guilt, painful, cringing, pounds of guilt) that he didn’t think the wards at Malfoy Manor had been tampered with. But he couldn’t imagine why Draco would have done it. Why would anyone suddenly go to the home of someone they hadn’t seen or spoken to in almost eight years, break in, and beat that person nearly to death out of nowhere? There seemed no logical reason. Draco was still the heir to his mother’s property and money, but that wasn’t worth much these days, and besides, Draco hadn’t wanted any of it anyway. And neither a feud nor a grudge made sense, not when they’d been out of contact for so long and Draco hadn’t really wanted to leave her in the first place. No. There was no sane reason for Draco to do such a thing.

Which either made Draco innocent or insane.

And while Harry still knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Draco would not hurt anyone, he had to admit that lately, Draco hadn’t really been acting like Draco. He’d been acting odd. Out of character. Here, wide awake in his bed, listening to Draco’s breathing, Harry could only think two words over and over and over.

_Brain damage._

Tomorrow he’d hear from Narcissa Malfoy’s own lips who had beaten her. But regardless of what she said, things were already in motion. He’d known, on some level, that as soon as the subject came up with either Hermione or Ron, he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore, and he’d been right. As of now, whatever was wrong with Draco was blindingly, shockingly, inescapably real, and Harry was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I'm having surgery in a few days. Because of this, there's a very good chance that the next chapter will be substantially delayed. I swear up and down and sideways that this story will not be abandoned, and I'm hopeful that the next chapter will only be pushed back about a week, but I'm not going to make any promises, because in my experience that's the easiest way for karma to mess with you. I'm sorry for the delay, but suggestions of my beta readers aside, you really don't want me to write while I'm high on painkillers because there's a distinct possibility that the Creature will win, and no one wants that.


	8. Tua Est Terra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said with the last chapter, I had surgery last week, so this might be a little rough. Sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> Also, I'd like to warn for some angst up ahead, and also quite a bit more sex than we've had so far (but my beta reader assures me that the sex helps balance out the angst, so there's that). We're getting pretty close to the end, as there's probably only 2 chapters left after this one (I might break it up into three, depending on how the writing falls out, but my outline calls for two). I figure we're due for something fun, yeah? Also, I've added a couple tags, so take a look at those if you're at all interested.
> 
> UPDATE: Unfortunately, I've had a complication from my surgery. I've been sick as the proverbial dog and have been next to useless for a couple weeks now. I'm on massive drugs (not the good, make-you-floaty-and-happy kind, unfortunately) so hopefully I'll be able to get back to work soon. As I've said before, this work is not abandoned, and I'm holding out hope I'll have the next chapter ready in less than two weeks. Sorry for the delay, and I promise I'm getting better as soon as humanly possible.

 

Rain started falling sometime after eight, a soothing presence in the dark quiet of Malfoy’s bedroom. Harry could hear it drumming on the roof and splashing against the windows. He tugged the covers up a bit more. Despite the evening chill, having Malfoy’s long, half-asleep body curved tightly in his arms meant he was plenty warm enough, both cozy and comfortable. Harry had begun to absently stroke soft skin at some point, and now Malfoy was a puddle of lazy flesh, occasionally releasing sleepy, satisfied noises at the intimacy of Harry’s hand running along his hip and belly and throat—a hand that caressed possessively, gently, and perhaps even tenderly. Harry couldn’t remember ever experiencing a moment like this before; still, soft, close.

He dozed for a while, and woke again when the rush of droplets against the windows became a roar. Malfoy had turned over and burrowed against Harry in the meantime, and now his even breaths fluttered against Harry’s left nipple. Harry could feel Malfoy’s long, bare legs intertwined with his own, and the fabric of Malfoy’s boxer-briefs (and the pleasant weight of his flaccid cock) against his hip. Most satisfyingly, Malfoy’s fingers were tangled limply in Harry’s chest hair. Proof, Harry thought, that Malfoy had not been maneuvered into this intimacy or accidentally fallen into it. No, he thought, warmed by the weight of that grip, it meant that Malfoy wanted this quiet, this closeness, just as much as Harry did.

Barely more than conscious, Harry dipped his head and let his lips trail against Malfoy’s forehead. He eased Malfoy slightly closer, dropping dreamy kisses, nipping the edge of one delicate, faintly-downed ear. Malfoy shifted, his lids lifting to reveal blurry gray eyes heavy with languor. He tilted his head back, frowning petulantly, as if he might’ve been tempted to berate Harry for waking him if it hadn’t been so much darned effort, and Harry smiled, bestowing yet another kiss, this time on Malfoy’s annoyed pout. And then, because he couldn’t possibly do otherwise, he sank in, letting the casually affectionate contact linger, deepen, and slowly become something else. Something needy. Something caring.

Something worshipful.

He cupped Malfoy’s cheek and tilted his head, unable to hold back a soft moan at the feel of that hot mouth opening beneath his so trustingly, so wonderingly. The kiss went on and on, slow and seductive and sweet until finally Malfoy tugged away. He tried to turn, to shift onto his other side. Harry refused to let him.

“Don't kiss me like that,” Malfoy whispered into the darkness.

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

Harry shook his head helplessly. “I think I do.”

“Don't,” Malfoy murmured, and rather than an order it sounded like begging. Not that it meant anything, because immediately after making this request, Malfoy kissed him again, then again, hot, sliding kisses, long, drugging kisses, kisses that went on until Harry felt foggy and vague and lost, like words and thoughts had ceased to exist and there was only Malfoy's quick little panting breaths and his painfully slow lips and tongue, and the saltysweet taste of him. Then, at the height of the fog and the slow and the heat and the soft, Malfoy suddenly bit his lip, adding pain and edge, making the whole thing unexpectedly sharp and perfect. It was so very, very Malfoy. Harry felt a shaft of pure terror spike down his spine that made his hands shake, because that kiss was everything he craved about Malfoy, everything he hadn't even known he was missing until he'd seen Malfoy again. Harry was in over his head, lost in freefall, cartwheeling through empty air, because Malfoy had become gravity, pulling him down faster and faster, and who knew what hitting the bottom would be like?

He’d rolled Malfoy beneath him at some point in all that snogging and that lovely cock had thickened like iron in the hollow of Harry’s hip. Harry couldn’t keep himself from rubbing up against that hardness in leisurely, instinctive undulations that had the heat building in his bullocks and spine. Malfoy had gone boneless and syrupy, like all of the need in him moved thick as honey and weighed him down, made him sluggish with the impossible depths of it. Harry liked him like this, glassy-eyed and limp-limbed and whispering disjointed words like _please_ and _more_ and _good._

Harry's brain had shut off long ago, skipping off as if to say _since I'm not needed, I'll just step outside till you're done_ and Harry couldn't really say that he missed it. There was just this long night with the cold rain falling beyond the windows and the uneven shadows that lent Malfoy's skin an ethereal blue undertone. Time wasn't passing here. The world had stopped turning, and they could stay here in this bubble together, safe and lost in each other, in the heat and the wet and the breathless, slow rocking.

Eventually, inevitably, the desire became need, and once he’d summoned lube, Harry worked his way down, spreading Malfoy’s long thighs and pressing and opening and stretching, making Malfoy's body yield with sighs and arches and shudders. Malfoy didn’t protest, although his gray eyes were enormous and followed his every move like a mouse watched a snake. Harry remembered—faintly—Malfoy's reluctance to do this, and hesitated.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

Malfoy bit his lip, eyes shadowed and steady, and slowly shook his head. Harry couldn’t quite conceal his smile.

“That’s good,” he murmured against pale skin. “That’s good, Malfoy. It’ll be good. Just tell me if something doesn’t work for you and we’ll try something else.”

He wasn’t sure Malfoy could hear him over the drumming of the rain, and he’d barely spoken above a whisper anyway, not wanting to disturb the secretive, intimate atmosphere of the darkened bedroom. He resumed stretching and scissoring his fingers even as he lowered his mouth to Malfoy’s cock, drawing on the salty, wonderfully bitter hardness. Harry could barely concentrate on finding that sweet spot deep inside of Malfoy while also sucking him deep, and that was before considering the mass of sensations in his own body, aching and desperate, yet somehow still quiet and soft and slow.

When Malfoy’s gasps and shudders began to take on an air of desperation, Harry paused to study his expression. Malfoy’s face was a dim, uncertain triangle in the dark, somehow entreating, but Harry wasn't sure what he was asking for.

Didn’t get more than a chance to wonder at it anyway, because Malfoy shoved him back and rose up over him, slinging a long thigh across Harry and centering himself on Harry's well-slicked cock.

Harry almost swallowed his tongue.

Malfoy’s pleading expression vanished, replaced by a familiar smirk. Harry’s gut clenched at the sheer, wicked beauty of it. This was the essential Malfoy, so often hidden these days behind manners and professionalism and caution, and Harry had barely been able to admit to himself how much he missed that edge. Malfoy held him down with his heat and long limbs and knowing eyes, smirking all the while as if to say _you know you'll let me, you want me badly enough that you'll let me do anything_ and Harry wasn't too proud to admit that it was true. He did want Malfoy, this Malfoy, the snarky, over-confident Malfoy who was sharp and sarcastic and even a little mean. He brought fire back to Harry's life, woke him up, got him breathing. Got him hard.

Whether by nature or nurture, Harry had a fundamental need to push.

Malfoy pushed back.

Malfoy began to slide down, pausing for several heartbeats when the head of Harry’s cock popped through that ring of muscle at his entrance before continuing in fits and starts. His hands—sweaty-palmed, trembling—clutched at Harry's shoulders for balance. His eyes stayed on Harry's throughout, and Harry watched each flicker of pain and pleasure cross his face, searching hard for every last bit of Malfoy's perception of this, his first time bottoming. Harry cupped those narrow hips, helping Malfoy go slow, rubbing the hollows of his pelvic bones with his thumbs in long, soothing strokes. Malfoy exhaled once, loud in the quiet between them, and only fell silent again when their pelvises were flush. He took a moment, still studying Harry intensely, his lips still twisted in that shrewd little sneer, making Harry wonder just what it was that Malfoy saw in _his_ face. Then Malfoy began to move.

His motion was a little clumsy at first, torn between lifting and rocking, but Harry guided his movements with hands and rolling hips and murmurs of approval when he found something they both liked and the clumsiness became aptitude very quickly. Soon Malfoy was moving like water upon him, tireless and fluid and utterly, utterly graceful.

There was something pure about all that cool beauty, something that almost made Harry tell him to stop, just so he could study Malfoy’s perfection without distraction. It was like wanting to fuck the Sistine Chapel, Harry thought numbly, then even that ludicrous thought slipped away and left him with just the mad, riotous need.

Malfoy rode him for endless minutes, gentle and smooth and unhurried, and the feel of him, hot and slick and so very tight, stole Harry's reason even if the pace was far too easygoing to amount to more than teasing. Harry ceased to exist as anything other than his own flesh and an urge to pay homage to this beautiful creature putting himself in Harry’s hands, which were now cupped around pert, flexing buttocks.

“You’re killing me,” Harry muttered. “You’re so fucking tight. Christ, I can’t believe you’re letting me do this. That I’m the only person who knows how fucking amazing you feel. You’re absolutely killing me.”

A flash of a grin in the dark.

“I’m serious. You might actually be killing me. Oh, God, do that again. What you just did.”

When Malfoy obeyed, Harry bucked up, his eyes slamming closed. Then, in revenge, he lifted a hand and began to stroke the thick, dripping cock bobbing against Malfoy’s belly.

Malfoy's head fell back, his mouth opening to show slightly-crooked bottom teeth, endearingly lovely to Harry in that moment, and his hips began to move faster, settling into a rhythm capable of actually bringing Harry off, at once a relief and a disappointment. Harry could only lie there and stroke him, lost in the physicality of Malfoy's body--smooth skin, the weight of his pelvis and torso pushing Harry into the mattress, his long thighs clutching Harry's hips, and always, always, that maddening grip and slide and warmth on his own cock.

Faster now, and then faster still, and the burn was building. Harry had to thrust, had to strive, because he ached under the lash of need. His entire body felt like a live wire, sparking and reaching and over-exposed, and he realized he was using his free hand to grind Malfoy onto him, over and over, even as he bucked up into him. He couldn’t possibly get deeper, but Malfoy seemed just as determined that he should find a way; Malfoy spread his knees further, shifting his weight back, opening himself as much as he could in this position. His thighs clenched and released, lifting him and dropping him, and it was harder, deeper, driving, and Malfoy’s fingers dug into Harry’s shoulders as if he were trying to make the world stop spinning, his mouth open and gasping, eyes blind to anything but pleasure, and Christ, those low, broken moans were only powering the pressure building in Harry's gut and bollocks. He ached, Merlin, how he ached, his whole body strung tight as guitar string, grasping and thrusting and shoving and needing, and Malfoy was coming, bouncing on Harry’s cock and giving a low, wild groan. As warm liquid spattered his belly, Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy was breathtaking locked in orgasm, slim and pale and demanding and perfect, and Harry felt his own pleasure screaming down his spine. He kept his gaze on Malfoy as he came, as his body clenched and he shoved up into Malfoy’s body once, twice, three more times, hard enough to rattle Malfoy’s teeth. He kept watching all the way, up until Malfoy fell forward into his arms and Harry pressed his face into silky blond hair, listening to their hearts thundering and their breaths panting and Malfoy's arms slid around Harry's neck, his face buried in Harry's throat, and all Harry could think was _this. This. Just this._

"Draco," he whispered, and Malfoy's fingers fluttered against his nape in wordless acceptance. They slept.

*

Harry hadn’t seen Narcissa Malfoy since that night in the Forbidden Forest when she’d leant over him, smelling of trees and panic sweat and a mother’s desperation. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected out of this meeting, but, given that all he actually knew of her was her willingness to lie for her son, he really should have seen this coming.

“I didn’t see who it was,” she said to Ron for the dozenth time.

In a way, her refusal to describe her attacker was a sort of proof all its own, he supposed. She wouldn’t have hesitated to throw anyone else to the wolves. Looking down at her crushed and blackened face, he couldn’t even work up the will to be angry at her for it. One eye was swollen entirely closed, her nose had been fractured and her cheekbone had been shattered, and since she’d laid there for so long before receiving medical attention, she would likely be disfigured for life, but strangely, what seemed worst of all was that they’d shaved part of her head to treat a wound on her scalp. Nothing remained of the cultured woman who had maintained a measure of grace and elegance even when plotting frantically to get back to her child despite the whims of a madman.

St. Mungo’s hadn’t given her a private room; the Malfoy name simply didn’t carry the cachet it once had. In fact, Harry had overheard more than a few gleeful whispers among the Healers—something that boggled his mind, considering the nature of the work they did—but then, that was the atmosphere of the world these days. There’d been more than one reason he’d been supportive of Hermione’s decision to keep Draco at Hogwarts following his accident.

They’d wheeled out the other patient for the purposes of the interrogation. The room felt far too large for just her, and she seemed even smaller by comparison.

“I’ll admit, I find that hard to believe, Mrs. Malfoy,” Ron said, his _please-stand-back-I’m-a-professional-Auror_ voice unable to fully conceal his frustration. “This person got past your wards, broke into the Manor, apparently managed to get close to you without you feeling the need to disapparate out of fear, and then spent a not-small amount of time hurting you viciously. You’re really saying you didn’t see who did it?”

“I think he was male,” she offered, again for the dozenth time, and Ron sighed.

Harry felt a mixture of urgency and reprieve; he needed confirmation, damn it, needed to know that he should start on the steps to fix this, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure he could stand to hear that Draco, his Draco, kind and anxious and so eager to do the right thing, was capable of _this._

Frankly, looking at the damage done to her made his stomach turn.

She looked at him out of her one good eye, the color reminding him of Draco’s eyes, and he didn’t know what to make of the love that still shone there.

“Since you’re here, Mr. Potter,” she said, in that rough grate that passed for her voice, “perhaps you could tell me how he’s doing?”

Harry laughed. It startled all three of them.

She blinked once. “Will you help him?” she asked, abandoning all signs of subterfuge.

Harry shouldn’t answer; he could almost feel Ron _willing_ him to keep his mouth shut in the face of later pensieves and Veritaserum, but he couldn’t leave that imploring gaze unanswered.

“As much as I’m able,” he muttered, and walked out.

After a few minutes, Ron followed, and they stood out of the way as hospital staff wheeled Mrs. Malfoy’s roommate back in.

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Ron said dryly.

“Sorry,” Harry offered.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to your thickheaded lack of self-preservation instincts by this point.”

“I’ll excuse myself from now on.”

“That would be helpful.”

“Or you can boot me, if that’ll look better.”

“I don’t know.” Ron rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m starving. I’ll deal with your inability to maintain objectivity once I’ve had Shepherd’s Pie. Or a curry.”

“Right.” Harry stood away from the wall. “Either way, I guess it’s time for us to ask him about it. Though I’m not really sure how one goes about this sort of thing.”

“Harry, we might not want to tip our hand,” Ron said, looking a little concerned. “We don’t have any actual evidence that he did this besides the fact that the wards say he _could_ have entered the Malfoy grounds.”

“I need to see his face,” Harry said. He hesitated, then decided to keep Draco’s lack of feeling regarding his mother’s attack a secret—for now. “I need to know if he’s going to lie to me.”

“He already is lying to you,” Ron pointed out.

“To my face, I mean.” Harry closed his eyes. “I don’t actually know what I’m doing. I just need to give him a chance. This isn’t him. He wouldn’t do this, not in his right mind. I keep thinking about brain damage and…I owe him better than just turning on him, don’t I?”

“And if he runs?”

“Then you can take me in for abetting and obstruction.”

“Fuck, Harry.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You can’t do much for him from Azkaban, you git,” Ron snapped.

They stood there, a little awkward, Ron pissed and Harry apologetically unyielding, and finally Ron said, “Fine. But I’m coming with you. Unless you’re still spouting that horseshit about how he won’t hurt you.”

“No,” Harry said quietly, thinking of the love in Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes that hadn’t saved her. “No, I’m not saying anything.”

Ron eyeballed Harry. “And if he says something that means I need to take him in?”

Harry swallowed.

“Are you going back me up, mate?”

“I guess I understand why you have to ask me that, but I wish you didn’t.”

“Is that a yes?”

Harry closed his eyes. “Yes. I’ve got your back.”

“Even if it means hurting him?”

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the sickness in his stomach spread to his arms and legs. He thought about bending over and putting his head between his knees to keep the weakness from spreading, but he didn’t want to scare Ron.

“Even then,” he whispered. He could tell his breathy response hadn’t been convincing and reminded himself that Draco—the Draco that hadn’t had brain damage and hurt his own mother—would not forgive Harry for letting him hurt anyone. “Even then,” he said more strongly.

They found the floos in silence and traveled through to the cottage. Harry felt like he was moving through sludge, his whole body fighting the necessity of going home to see Draco and figure out what the hell was going on.

But when they got to the cottage, a patient Goober explained that Master Malfoy had gone in search of potions ingredients and would be back in the evening. The elf went back to doing whatever elves did, and Harry and Ron looked at each other. Looking for potions ingredients was the one thing Harry was pretty certain Draco was _not_ doing.

“Fuck,” Harry said, the sickness in his stomach turning into lead.

Ron turned away, grim. “Do I have enough to put out a bulletin for him? Just on the basis of the wards?”

Harry hesitated. It was a judgment call, and one that Harry had no business making. Once more he took a second to feel gratitude that Ron was his friend. “No,” he said, reluctant. It was the call he’d have made if it was anyone but Draco involved, but it wouldn’t look that way if the case came under review. “No, I don’t think you do. Opportunity isn’t enough, not without motive. Not when she wouldn’t identify him.”

“Maybe he was counting on that.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, but he knew Ron didn’t believe it. Ron believed, as a small, guilty part of Harry believed, that Narcissa Malfoy had lived despite her attacker’s intentions.  
Draco had meant to kill her.

“I’ll be subtle,” Ron said. “And I won’t put out any bulletins to the other Aurors. But I’m going back to the office. Message or no message, he could be doing anything right now. I have to look for him. I’ll keep it as low key as I can, but I have to look. You know that right?”

“I know,” Harry said.

*

Draco had been cautious with his words since the news of his mother’s survival. It was no surprise that the Creature was not happy about it, although Draco had managed to put It off the idea of taking any immediate action with arguments of waiting guards and assurances that his mother likely wouldn’t reveal his guilt anyway. The Creature had seemed perplexed at the idea of Narcissa’s loyalty after Its attack, but had eventually subsided, in large part due to Its waiting portkey to France.

It would deal with Narcissa—and Harry, if necessary—later.

Emirande lacked the provincial charm of Hogsmeade. Draco had been there before and greatly preferred the elegant, old-world style of the continental Wizarding village. Instead of brick and wood, there was marble and slate, and the stately details—wrought iron balconies and conjured fairy lights leftover from the New Year—were pleasant without being overt. Lilting French filled the air instead of the more guttural English. Even the snow seemed whiter.

The lack of grubby students everywhere didn’t hurt either.

Still, they weren’t in Emirande long before the Creature found the Freemantle estate. It got the proper apparition coordinates from the nearby postal eyrie, and less than an hour after seeing foot on French soil, It was arriving at the gates of a grand old Manor. Considering the current state of the Malfoy ancestral home, there was no question of which family held the most sway. The Freemantles had hidden their Dark allegiances well.

When the house elf—wearing a neat hand towel marked with a crest—arrived to meet them, the Creature wasted no time.

“Jugson has something which belongs to me.”

The elf left with the message before returning, post-haste, to allow It entrance and show It to a well-appointed sitting room. The little thing returned with a tea-laden tray and had barely set out the cups when Jugson slunk into the room, confusion and suspicion writ large across his dull features.

The man had not aged well since the war, the coarse gray in his hair beginning to thin, and he’d put on no small amount of weight. It made him puffy and self-satisfied; Draco wondered just what kind of girl the Freemantle chit was to have looked at this man and seen marriage.

“Malfoy,” Jugson said. “I almost didn’t believe you had the nerve—”

“Leave us,” the Creature said to the elf, which seemed more than happy to obey a complete stranger without even checking with its master. Before the loud crack of its disapparition had ended, the Creature continued. “I’m not Malfoy. And I want the chest which the Dark Lord entrusted to you two days before the battle.”

Jugson went white, a color which only made the bags under his eyes stand out.

“Now,” the Creature continued, and took a sip from the cup which the elf had left half-filled in a saucer.

“I’ll have to go get it,” Jugson stammered. “It won’t respond to summoning charms.”

“Of course not. Off you go.”

Jugson nearly ran into the doorway on his way out.

**The man is an idiot. What Voldemort was thinking entrusting the chest to him I’ll never know.**

_He’s brutal._ Draco said. _The Dark Lord valued that trait._

**Perhaps he used to be. Now he’s a swollen has-been.**

Jugson was back quickly. He carried a large black chest in his arms, the weight of it apparently considerable, making Draco think the thing was spelled to repel all sort of magic, including _Wingardium Leviosa_ or Jugson wouldn’t have gone to the effort _._ The box was elaborately decorated with plate brass, dull and thoroughly scratched and locked with a small, fragile-looking padlock. Not that the padlock mattered; even from across the room Draco could feel the potency of the magic the chest had been imbued with. Most wizards wouldn’t have a chance in hell of getting to whatever lay inside.

“Yes,” the Creature breathed, and Draco could feel Its excitement, the way every nerve in their shared body lit up when It saw the artefact. And it was an artefact; the thing reeked of age as much as magic.

**This is it.**

Draco could tell the Creature hadn’t been talking to him. In Its excitement, It wasn’t paying much attention to what Draco could or couldn’t hear.

Jugson handed over the chest with visible gratification, then stood there running his hands over his arms as if trying to wipe off an unpleasant residue.

The Creature held the chest closely, nearly purring, and set it aside only with palpable reluctance. It took up Draco’s wand and turned on Jugson.

“Now, M-Malfoy,” Jugson managed, seemingly aware that the name wasn’t applicable but was left without an alternative. He put his hands up.

“ _Imperio,”_ the Creature intoned, and Jugson’s hands dropped. His eyes went blank and unfocused. “Kill yourself.”

Jugson drew his wand mechanically and Draco watched, resigned and empty, as he performed a cutting curse, opening both arms from wrist to elbow so that blood gushed out. The Creature waited until the man crumpled, eyes still distant. He died without returning to himself. A small relief, Draco thought.

The Creature turned to take up the box, and jumped slightly when the door opened. A young woman entered, probably in her late twenties, her brown hair mousy, her face square and plain and vaguely masculine, but her enormous bosom did a lot to offset the impression of manliness. She had an earthy sensuality in her swinging hips as she entered, and did not appear to be carrying a wand.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, love, but—”

The woman—no doubt Jugson’s wife—stopped with a thick breath rattling in her throat. “Bernard?” she whispered, and the sound that came from her mouth then was one that Draco never wanted to hear again. Never, ever again. It was the sound of profound grief, of a life shattering, of an endless ocean of agony.

She ignored the Creature entirely and walked shakily to Jugson, dropping down at his side and keening softly. She touched the gray hair with gentle fingertips, lingered over his eyebrows and along his cheek. She bent, pressed a reverential kiss to his lips before sitting back up. Without emitting a single tear, her moan fell away and she turned to face the Creature. There was blood in her hair, on her dress.

“Please,” she murmured.

“Please?” It asked.

“Kill me too,” she said. She had a thick French accent.

It didn’t move for several long seconds. Its head cocked to one side and It studied her. “Why?”

“So I’ll be dead.”

“Why?” It asked again. “He is ugly and dull and has outlived his purpose.”

“He is the other part of me. Please.”

The Creature shifted Its weight. It seemed utterly perplexed by the quiet certainty of the woman in front of him, at the way her hand held Jugson’s bloated fingers with such devotion. Draco was more than taken aback as well, but also recognized something familiar in her desolation.

This was love, Draco knew, the kind of love that made life the best it possibly could be. It also promised the worst pain that life could possibly deliver. It was nearly as difficult to look at as his mother’s broken face, and he refused to analyze why he feared he saw something of himself in her.

“But why?” the Creature asked. “Why him? Why this much?”

“If you don’t understand, no words will do it justice.” Her voice broke. “Please. Find some kindness in yourself. Please.”

It cast _Imperio_ once more and directed her to slit her wrists in the same manner as her husband.

As they exited the Freemantle’s estate, chest held firmly in Its arms, they were each silent, lost in reflection. Draco struggled to put the image of the Freemantle girl’s grief out of his mind, and occasionally overheard the Creature’s thoughts, torn between glee at finally possessing the box it held, and confusion at the reaction of the girl It had killed. Draco got a rare glimpse of the Creature’s emotions, tinging Its memories of the girl’s dry eyes and lack of reluctance, and found, to his surprise, that amidst the perplexity and curiosity was no small amount of jealousy.

After a time, It thought, **would you die for Harry?**

Draco didn’t think about it; he just let the answer well up within him, a fact as unquestioned as gravity or his need for air. _Yes._

**But you say you don’t love him.**

_I don’t. So imagine what I’d be willing to do if I did love him._ Draco hesitated. _Are you wishing you knew what it felt like?_

The Creature got beyond the gates but didn’t apparate. It seemed far too intent on their conversation to leave off just yet.

**I don’t know. I can’t really imagine it.**

_Perhaps you could,_ Draco thought, feeling his way. _It’s hard to find that kind of love without empathy. You have to be able to understand the pain of others to care about the pain of someone in particular._

 **I am the last of my kind.** The Creature thought this without self-pity. **Whom do you suggest I love?**

Draco blurted, even though he knew it was a mistake, _you could love Harry._

The Creature laughed, shaking off Its melancholy mood. **Ah, little one. Even now, plotting away on his behalf. No, as much as you might care for your savior, I find him obnoxiously possessive of your time and unduly intrusive on the subject of your supposed well-being. He enables your ridiculous fear of the world.**

 _It’s hard to argue that I was wrong to be afraid when I’m a little bit possessed at the moment,_ Draco thought resentfully, and the Creature laughed again.

**You have a point there. Now, we have one more stop to make.**

They disapparated.

*

Harry woke entangled with Draco’s lean nudity, and found it all too easy to roll the other man over and wake him with soft kisses along his back and buttocks. He found himself tempted to take his mouth further, but when he hesitated at the sweet cleft of Draco’s arse, Draco tensed, so Harry backed off. He decided to wait until Draco had gotten the chance to shower—lube wasn’t exactly meant to be digested, non-toxic or not, and he might be less resistant to the idea if he wasn’t feeling self-conscious about cleanliness.

Even though Draco had seemed to enjoy bottoming the night before, Harry wasn’t inclined to push when he might be sore, and besides, he wanted Draco to know that Harry would be considerate of Draco’s needs in bed. When Draco sighed and spread his legs, Harry leaned down and whispered, “Is this what you want?”

Draco blinked sleepy eyes. “Hmm?”

“I’d love to be inside you again, but I’m more than willing to return the favor if you’d rather fuck me.”

Draco actually blushed, the color downright pretty, enough to make Harry swallow a sigh, but his words were delightfully playful. “Why, Potter, you little tart.”

Harry laughed and let Draco up. He’d noticed that Draco hadn’t needed Harry to hold him down the night before and wondered if Draco was fully conscious of it yet. He also wondered exactly what it meant. Was Draco confident enough now in his decision to be with Harry that he didn’t need Harry to take responsibility for the choice to have sex? Or did it merely mean that he had been as fully lost in the perfect moment as Harry had been, making the bondage unnecessary?

Perhaps it was both, but now, with Draco tentatively kneeling behind him, putting lube on his fingers, it was hard to care.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this,” Draco admitted.

“You’re doing fine,” Harry mumbled into the pillow.

Draco spent more time opening him up than was strictly necessary, and now and again Harry thought he felt Draco’s hands trembling, but he said nothing. There was something sweet about it.

When Harry was fully prepared, he expected Draco to pull him up onto his knees. However, Draco instead kept him flat on the mattress. He gently pushed Harry’s thighs farther apart so that he lay on his belly with his legs wide, nearly like a frog. “Grab your legs,” he said. “Hold yourself open for me.”

Harry shivered and obeyed, wrapping a hand around the back of each knee, and felt Draco slither upward, covering him so that Harry felt surrounded and compressed wonderfully between Draco’s warm belly at his back and the soft sheets at his front. Draco held himself on his elbows on either side of Harry’s head and eased in slowly. Harry couldn’t contain the moan; Draco’s cock was thick and plugged him wide and deep.

“You feel so good,” Draco said thickly. “Gods, so good. Although I can’t say I’m surprised to find you’re a bit of a tight-arse, Potter.”

Harry couldn’t even form words. He was aware that Draco was teasing him, but it seemed inconsequential compared to what was happening inside of him. He simply lay shivering and breathing hard as Draco moved within him.

Draco’s hips were confident and controlled. Harry thought, dimly, that perhaps he was experiencing the sensation that Draco had enjoyed so much when he was tied up; he felt like he couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. Instead of feeling forced, he felt released. There were no decisions to be made, no actions to be taken. Draco would handle it. Draco would make it good.

And Draco did. The only part of his body that moved was his hips, which meant that he lay draped over Harry the entire time, a living blanket, warm and heavy and domineering, and Harry couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even think, it was all so perfectly overwhelming. He just pushed back into Draco as much as he could and closed his eyes. Because _fuck._

“Is that okay?” Draco asked, panting slightly.

“Don’t stop,” Harry gasped. “Christ, this is…I don’t even know…how the hell are you _doing_ that?”

Draco laughed. “I told you I wasn’t a virgin.”

“I get to be on top next time. No more letting you set the pace just because it’s your first time bottoming. I’ve got something to prove now.” Harry’s eyes nearly rolled back in his skull, because yes, that was the head of Draco’s cock burrowing repeatedly and so lightly against his prostate, and yes, that was his own spine that had just liquefied.

Draco just kept laughing.

And they couldn’t have been going at it more than a few minutes when Harry realized he might come like this, might go off like a shotgun from just the feel of Draco inside him, and he made a groan-grunt that would definitely be humiliating when he thought of it later, but it turned out to be okay, because Draco apparently liked the sound of it. Then it was fast, like hearing proof of Harry’s enjoyment was maddening for him, like he’d lost all control. The thrusts were shallow and quick as he pressed frantic kisses to the back of Harry’s neck, and he came quickly after that. He pulled out, clearly embarrassed, and sneered about it, as if Harry’s arse had been to blame and Harry was really at fault for not preparing for that possible reaction.

“Less to prove now,” Harry said smugly, and Draco pinched him, pretty damn hard, on his thigh. Even as Harry was still cursing, Draco took him in his mouth. He moaned shamelessly the whole time, all the way up until Harry shot deep into his throat.

“We’re getting sort of good at this,” Harry managed, sometime later, and Draco, half-asleep, had said, “I’ve been good since the beginning. It’s about damn time you caught up.”

After a brief nap and showers, they made their way downstairs for breakfast, which Goober happily supplied. Draco once more refused to let Goober clean up, and Harry watched, feeling surprisingly fond, as Draco meticulously washed every dish and then wiped down the sink and counters with the precise air of a man defusing a bomb. The act of it seemed to relax Draco still further, and they slumped onto the sofa, Harry with the vague idea of perhaps taking another nap.

“I should probably get some brewing done,” Draco said. He was lying with his head in Harry’s lap and Harry was playing with his hair. “I missed my afternoon session yesterday.”

Harry’s hand stilled. “Do you want me to go?”

Draco hesitated. “No,” he said softly. “Although I can’t imagine what you would do to stay entertained.”

“Can I watch?”

“Why on earth why would you want to do that?”

“I’ve never really seen a Potions Master at work. And if this is your career, maybe it’s time I figured out just why the field isn’t the crapshoot I’ve always thought of it as.”

Draco made a face. “You’re a freak. But all right.”

So Harry was deposited on a stool that was later transfigured into an armchair when his arse went numb (and he was no small amount of sore—it had been a long while since he’d bottomed). He saw Draco pull down vials and packets and lay out ingredients. The long, pale fingers moved with competence, clever and quick but careful, and his utter absorption in his task was surprisingly affecting. His mouth pursed and worked and Harry suspected he was soundlessly talking to himself, and he shifted his weight smooth and easy as he reached and turned and poured and ground, almost like he was dancing. Several times, Harry felt the pulse of Draco’s magic, controlled and precise. Within far less time than he would have thought, three cauldrons were bubbling and Draco wore a slight sheen of sweat. He cast stasis spells over two, then turned down the fire on the third and bottled gray sludge with a pearlescent sheen into a dozen vials. He met Harry’s eye for the first time in over an hour.

“Memory potion,” he said. “Good for Healers on long shifts.”

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Harry said gutturally and stood. “Are you at a point where you can take a break?”

“Yes,” Draco said, peering at him suspiciously.

Harry stalked forward, and Draco took a big step back.

“Not in the lab,” Draco said, sounding scandalized. “What’s wrong with you? Were you raised in a barn?”

“In a cupboard, actually.”

Harry saw the hesitation and speculation, but now wasn’t the time. He took Draco’s hand and led him upstairs, where the bedroom still seemed too far away. So he took Draco into the sitting room, this time determined to indulge himself; he stripped Draco’s trousers down, shook them off trim ankles, and tossed them aside. He was topping this time. It wasn’t really about proving a point, regardless of what he’d said earlier. This was more about pleasing Draco and himself, and he knew exactly what it would take to do both at this exact moment.

Okay, it wasn’t _only_ to prove a point. All that other stuff was definitely true. But if he could also remind Draco that Harry Potter was not the one with something to learn about being amazing in bed in this relationship, then all the better.

He used one hand to shove Draco over the back of the sofa.

“Stay there like that,” he ordered, then took his time to survey all the white skin before him. “Look at this. It’s rather a nice view of you. Arse in the air. Legs spread wide. Merlin, you are gorgeous.”

He knelt, mouthing and biting the full buttocks, and didn’t hesitate this time when he got close to the undefended muscle of Draco’s arsehole.

He ignored Draco’s yelp when he set lips to that hidden flesh.

He ignored Draco’s growled “Potter, what the fuck are you doing?”

It was harder to ignore the way Draco kicked him, rather hard, in the shin.

Harry pulled back just enough to say, “Let me,” in a low voice—nearly a groan. “Let me, Draco. You’ll like it. Christ, please let me. I need to taste you. Try it once.”

And Draco subsided, albeit with snarls and grumbles and no small amount of complaints about all the horrible things he put up with for Harry, and threats about all the things Harry would be doing for him in return and then, as Harry licked and teased and pushed his tongue inside, the complaints became moans and then groans and he smiled against the pink pucker to see the way Draco tried to hide the way he shook. Harry reached up with a thumb and coaxed the edge of Draco’s hole wider, getting the rim sloppy wet and loose, and Draco cried out, a sound that was nearly a mewl.

Harry said innocently, “You sure this is all right? I can stop if you want.”

“Oh, Merlin, put your tongue in me, Potter, please, gods, do that again, please.”

So Harry did. Over and over, his thumbs helping his tongue and lips until Draco’s legs buckled and the sofa was all that held him up. He kept at it until Draco’s hole was red and abused and even a little swollen. Until Draco was virtually hyperventilating, unable to contain the countless frantic noises that emerged from his throat. Until that little muscle was quivering and desperate against his mouth. It was on a small, gentle bite that Draco came, thrashing against the fingers Harry had pressed deeply within him, cock untouched.

He didn’t cry out; no, the word for the sound that Draco made then was _wail._ He sagged to the floor on his elbows and knees, where Harry fucked him, hard and brutal, ramming him into the hardwood, holding his wrists down simply for the fun of it. Harry backed off each time he felt his orgasm approach, and waited patiently until Draco was hard again, until he was begging and struggling and cursing Harry for being an uncouth bastard with bad hair lacking any manners or tact, until Draco came again, on the verge of sobbing with exhaustion and over-stimulation. And after they finished, after all that struggle and anger and argument, Draco curled up pretty and soft and sweet in Harry’s arms, dropping kittenish kisses on Harry’s chest and collarbone, murmuring that he was sorry for all the awful things he’d said, even if they _were_ true.

“’M not too fussed about it, to be serious. I won, after all,” Harry said, shrugging, and was rewarded with a vicious bite to his nipple.

“You won? Oh, we’ll see about that,” Draco promised darkly. “And shut up. You look ridiculous with your hair like that. It’s like you’ve never heard of styling charms. What the hell do you do to it to make it look like that?”

“We’ve kind of struck an accord over the years,” Harry said lazily. “I don’t interfere in its plans, and it doesn’t interfere in mine.”

Draco tried, and failed, to smother a laugh.

After another shower, (and a second brushing of teeth at Draco’s pointed request, not that Harry wouldn’t have thought of it himself), they went back downstairs, where Harry watched avidly as Draco bottled another of his brews, thinking that it was only the fact that they’d fucked three times in less than twenty-four hours that was keeping him from taking Draco back upstairs and fucking him again, maybe up against a wall this time.

They had lunch—some kind of shellfish—and Draco mocked Harry’s manners, but with a softness that Harry never could have expected to experience, and he found himself laughing. And then he answered Draco’s watchful questions about Harry’s cupboard statement, eventually explaining about the Dursleys.

Finally, Harry said, “It’s part of why I need Hermione and Ron so badly. They’re the only real family I have.”

Draco was hard at work doing dishes again, but Harry could tell he was listening carefully. “I suppose that explains their devotion as well. To have someone like you be dependent…I imagine it’s potent.”

“Someone like me?”

Draco’s mouth formed a moue. “You’re very strong, Potter. Not real bright, but strong. And you’re decent. I suppose you’re even…you know what? Don’t fish for compliments. It’s cheap.”  
Harry felt as flustered as Draco looked, so he did them both a favor and cast back for their previous subject. After a brief hesitation, he said, “I think that’s why it’s so hard when they’re having problems.”

Draco didn’t react other than to take up a serving platter and begin washing it with a narrow glare, as if demanding it explain how it had dared to get so buttery.

Harry watched him fondly, and confessed, “I’m scared for them this time. If they split up…well, they’ve had a few problems in the past, when we were kids, and it was always really hard.”

“Why would they split up?”

After yet another hesitation, he admitted the whole mess, including the whole cheating nonsense and the trust issues and Hermione’s refusal to cave on any part of it, including accepting Draco’s apology, and when he was finished he immediately felt immensely better for getting it out. “I keep thinking they’ll be fine…they’re Ron and Hermione, you know? But every time I see them, they’re each just a little more strained. I can tell Hermione’s been crying a lot, and it doesn’t matter how many times I tell Ron to just trust her. He’s jealous by nature, and they’re both so fucking stubborn. And it’s not about me, really it’s not, but I can’t help being scared.”

Draco had long since put down the dish and was watching Harry with an unreadable expression. “They’re your family and they’re hurting,” he said finally. “It’s understandable you would feel that way.”

“And Ron’s going to flip out,” he blurted, gesturing aimlessly between himself and Draco. “Christ, I can’t begin to imagine how he’s going to flip out. I have to tell him. I think I’m going to do it tonight at the Burrow. We have family dinner there every week. Not that it won’t be massively awful and awkward to do it then. But it’ll be awful no matter when I do it. And the longer I wait the worse it gets.”

“Potter,” Draco said quietly, and Harry suddenly got a lurch in his belly. A lurch that was near-painful in intensity, and impossible to ignore.

“I’m going to tell him,” he insisted, not giving Draco a chance to speak. “He deserves to know. And I’ll take the hit. Whatever it is. I’ll figure it out.”

Draco eased away, crossing the kitchen and taking up a rag to dry his hands. There hadn’t been a hint of Robot Malfoy all day until now. There’d only been Draco, sweet and sharp and real, but now the distance was coming back, freezing him up, making him stiff and formal.

Harry watched him with a growing sense of unease. They stood, uncomfortable for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, and didn’t say anything.

Draco opened his mouth finally, and Harry immediately interrupted, words coming to him out of nowhere, as if Fate itself wanted to help him forestall whatever Draco was thinking. “I just dumped all my problems on you,” Harry blurted. “In the space of half an hour. That was really…I sort of took over the conversation. Sorry. That was rude. Um. Sorry. You must be ready to punch me.”

“Potter,” Draco said again, and again Harry felt that lurch. He already suspected what would come next; Draco would say that Harry shouldn’t say anything to Ron, not when they were just sex. But he didn’t think he could bear to hear it. Not after today. Not with how he felt now, after seeing what it could be like. In fact, the more he considered that Draco was about to speak those words— _we’re just sex_ —the more his stomach tightened.

“You know, I think I should go,” he said, and Draco watched him with cool, insightful eyes.

“All right,” he said.

How abrupt it was, how shocking, after how easy and warm and perfect the day had been, and now Harry would do anything to get out, anything to avoid hearing that it hadn’t been that way for Draco.

He flooed out without remembering his cloak, and his last glimpse was of Draco’s expression: unreadable and tight and robotic.

*

If Draco was going to leave, Harry was going to take advantage of it. Harry tore the cottage apart.

He left the armoire until late; closets and armoires were a pretty obvious hiding spot—people chose to tuck things away amid shoes and clothes all the time—which also made it a pretty stupid hiding spot, and Draco wasn’t stupid. Which was why he was surprised to see the droplets of what looked like congealed blood near the far wall on Draco’s side.

“Jesus,” Harry said. “Don’t be. Please, don’t be.”

Slowly, reluctantly, aching, he drew hangers across the bar with soft scraping noises, finally getting to a robe, black and sodden with dried blood. He pulled it out, hands shaking, and saw the white shirt hanging behind it, spattered with brownish red spots.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Oh, fuck. Fucking fuck. Oh, Draco, you stupid bastard. Why did you fucking do this?”

He couldn’t touch the fabric, both because he couldn’t bring himself to and because it wasn’t protocol. He laid the garments on the floor after casting a blocking charm to protect the hardwood. He closed his eyes for several minutes, trying desperately to hang onto control. Then he sent a Patronus to Ron. “Personal issue. As soon as you can,” he said, and knew his code would be understood. Within minutes the floo was burning and he heard his best mate’s footsteps on the stairs.

Ron stumbled to a halt in the doorway. “Bloody hell.” He was quiet for a minute. “We’ll get him help, Harry. We will. We’ll figure out a way to get him treatment.”

He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

It was the support that took the shock away. Harry started crying, noiseless tears that he wiped away, and which vanished nearly as quickly as they arrived. Still, Ron pulled him up and into a rough hug.

“I love him,” Harry said. _And he’s trying to kill people._

“I know, mate. We’ll help him. We’ll fix it. Somehow.”

“You should do the tests,” Harry said, pulling himself together and away from Ron at the same time.

Ron let him, giving him back his dignity, and went directly to the garments, casting diagnostic spells. Narcissa Malfoy’s blood type had been collected because of the attack, and the sample on the robe, no surprise, was a match. The blood on the shirt was not.

“There’s someone else,” Harry said, then added a Muggle curse, the worst one he knew, simply because the situation seemed to call for it. “Motherfucker.”

Ron looked startled, and a little put-off, but all he said was, “I’ll go see if there are any recent murders or attacks that match this.” He paused. “You okay alone?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Even if he comes back?”

“We have enough now,” Harry said. “But it would be better if we could confront Narcissa, get her to agree to testify. She’ll talk, in the interest of getting him treatment instead of Azkaban. She might fold then. Maybe she’ll say he wasn’t in his right mind. Maybe if we wait…”

“We might avoid sending him to Azkaban entirely in favor of St. Mungo’s.” Ron heaved a sigh. “And if he hurts someone else in the meantime?”

“I won’t let him,” Harry said. “I won’t, Ron. But I won’t send him there. You know what would happen to someone who looks like Draco in there.”

Ron closed his eyes. “This is a bad idea. Fuck. But you stay on him. In his damn pocket. And you call if you need anything. I’ll drop in randomly, a few times a day, just to check on you. Maybe he’ll be on his best behavior if he knows I might show up out of nowhere. And if he doesn’t come back in the next few hours, I’ll put out a bulletin. We’ll find him.”

“Thank you,” Harry said softly.

“You owe me so fucking huge it isn’t even funny. Your first-born, Harry. Your first-born is mine.”

Harry mustered up a small smile. “Second-born too. Maybe even all the way up to three.”

“Third in my family was Percy. You can keep that one.” As he spoke, Ron took the garments, put them in conjured evidence bags.

Harry put a hand on Ron’s upper arm. “I mean it.”

“Yeah.”

“Go.”

Ron went.

Harry sat on the bed and stared at the spot where the bloody robe and shirt had lain. After a few minutes, he went downstairs and firecalled Hermione.

*

They arrived in a clearing in the midst of a dark, gnarled forest. Before them, looking hunched and old in the late morning sunlight, was a clapboard house.

The Creature strode forward and up sunken steps. It paused at the doorway, and then thought, **you’re aware of certain protective spells? Spells meant to keep intruders out? And remember that I’ll know if you lie.**

 _A few,_ Draco thought.

**I’d like to remind you as well of what I will do to your Harry if you refuse. I will break his face and then I will put my thumbs in his eye sockets and push until they burst. I will take a knife to his groin and split his penis in—**

_Stop! For fuck’s sake, stop. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt Harry._

The Creature tilted Its head. **You really don’t love him?**

Draco could barely get the word out. _No. I care for him, more than I do for any other person, perhaps, but I don’t love him._

**What does it feel like? To care, even as much as you do?**

_Terrifying. And like you can’t breathe. And like your chest is so full and warm that you would do anything to hold that person close, to keep him safe. To need his happiness more than your own. To crave him, to need him to be there, to touch you. To know that losing him or even just seeing his pain, is all it would take to ensure your own suffering._

**After this, we’ll eat,** the Creature said briskly, turning back to the doorway. **I’m hungry. I’d like to try mussels this time.**

Draco sensed something else beneath the words, but couldn’t catch it, not while he was still rocked from focusing on his own struggle.

**The spells to protect this will require power, but Voldemort would know that I’m unlikely to have much knowledge, so they shouldn’t be hard to discern. You will get me past them.**

_I know. I will._

It took forever though. The door alone was laid with complex weavings that took hours, and then there were the traps inside. It took all of Draco’s knowledge of the Dark Arts—which was more than considerable, but he’d only had two decades of learning to Voldemort’s five or so. Evening was stretching across the sky, filling the spaces between the spindly, bare fingers of the trees by the time they finished.

In the basement was a small chest, this one ordinary and cheaply made, albeit thick with some of the most complicated magic Draco had ever seen. He was sweating and utterly exhausted by the time they’d opened it and found three vials—one filled with what looked like common dirt, one filled with several small fragments of bone, and one filled halfway with blood.

Draco, being a Potions Master, saw these vials and nearly lost his grip on the small corner of his mind he still possessed.

_If that’s what I think it’s for, I’m not helping you. You’ll have to kill Harry._

**I’m not bringing back Voldemort, little one. Don’t fear. It’s _Tua Est Terra,_ not the Regeneration Potion, although they share many of the same ingredients.**

Draco’s Latin was in good shape; many Dark Potions required knowledge of the language. He knew immediately what the words meant, even if he didn’t recognize the name.

_Yours is the Earth._

**Indeed. So you needn’t worry about Voldemort. Although the pain you felt at throwing your beloved under the proverbial bus was impressively sacrificial.**

_He’s not my beloved, and you’ll have to tell me what you’re really doing if you want any more of my help._

**I don’t think I’ll need it. I’m nearly there now. So very nearly there. Shall we return to England? There’s one last thing I need, and unfortunately, it isn’t here.**

The Creature collected the vials and retraced Its steps outside to disapparate.

*

“It isn’t brain damage,” Hermione said, her face creased with tension lines, her mouth resembling McGonagall’s at its worst—thin and white. “Our diagnostic spells would’ve revealed that while we were at Hogwarts, Harry. I’m sorry. Well, I'm not sorry, because maybe it's a good thing, but either way, that isn’t it.”

“There has to be something,” Harry said flatly. “This isn’t Draco.”

“Harry…”

“No. I can see what you’re thinking, but it isn’t. You and Ron…you just don’t get it. That’s not him anymore. He wouldn’t do this. Something’s going on.”

Hermione got up and went into the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with Goober at her back, a small tray with two cups of tea and a small pot clenched tight in his spindly arms. “Thank you, Goober,” she said.

“Anytime for Miss Granger,” the elf squeaked, love in his bulbous eyes before he left.

They drank for a moment. “Hermione,” he said finally, “What about that weird interaction? Do you remember? You and Madame Pomfrey couldn’t explain why he was still getting worse even though he was physically healed—or why he suddenly got better. Were you ever able to figure out what was going on?”

She licked tea from her lip. “No,” she said slowly, but her tone seemed less hesitant than before, like she’d forgotten about that particular detail and its presence made her view the whole matter differently. “No, there’s no explanation other than…well, an outside source.”

“An outside source,” Harry said. His teacup rattled in its saucer and he hastily put it down. “Fuck, Hermione, do you know what that means?”

“Harry—”

“First there’s an accident where something makes his whole body go crazy even though we can’t explain it, and all signs point to an influence from down in that damn sinkhole, although we don’t find anything when we look. And now we’ve got days of him acting weird. He called me by the wrong name. He wore the wrong clothes. He doesn’t act like Draco. Because that isn’t Draco. Holy fuck, Hermione. He’s…he’s possessed or something.”

“Wait,” she said. She got up, went to the nearby desk, and fiddled through cubbies and drawers until she found parchment and a quill, which reminded him forcibly of the time when he’d woken in the middle of the night and found Draco standing and staring in the darkness. _I’m sorry,_ he thought to Draco. _It shouldn’t have taken me a week and a half to notice. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen._

“Okay,” Hermione said, sinking into the chair opposite him. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how small the detail.”

Harry did so, and when he was done, they had a list which, read all in a row like that, sounded downright substantial.

“What the hell is wrong with me that I didn’t put this together?” Harry asked.

“Harry, no one in their right mind would’ve thought possession under these circumstances. There’s justifiable reasons for you to have made excuses for him in the beginning, and brain damage would’ve made far more logical sense, particularly since I’ve never heard of any sort of animal or creature that could do this sort of thing. Who jumps to possession when someone acts strangely after they’ve suffered a head injury? That’s Muggle thinking from back in the Middle Ages. You were surprisingly being logical.”

“Yes, I developed logic, right around the time it would have served me to have one of my hair-brained theories about Draco Malfoy,” Harry said. “But we can fix this, right? We can get whatever it is back out of him, right?”

Hermione chewed on the end of her quill absently. She was silent for a long time, well past the time when Harry had nervously finished his tea. He sat there jogging one leg up and down, eventually losing all patience.

“Hermione!”

“I’m thinking,” she snapped. “The truth is, I really can’t say. Not until I’ve done some research. In theory, anything that climbs into a space should be able to climb back out, but there are lots of biological metamorphoses that are permanent, and I don’t want to get your hopes up. Give me time. I’ll see if I can track the creature down—whatever it is—and we’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you,” he said. He reached over, took her slim hand in his and squeezed. “You and Ron are going above and beyond. I do know that.”

“Of course, Harry. We know how much Draco means to you. And even without that, I can’t really imagine how terrifying it would be, being locked in my own body with something else in control.” She gave a shudder. “Assuming, of course, that he’s still…”

“That he’s still in there.” Harry dragged a hand through his hair. “He is. I’m sure of it.”

“Why?”

“Because the thing inside of him attacked Draco’s mother. It wouldn’t have any reason to do that if Draco was just a shell it’s riding around in. No, that level of violence is personal; something Draco did must’ve prompted that reaction. He’s in there. Draco’s still alive.”

“Good point.” She checked her watch and got to her feet, no doubt already considering what books to check out. “I think I’ll see if Professor McGonagall will let me take a peek through the Hogwarts library. They still have one of the best in the country. And St. Mungo’s might have texts for their Creature-Induced Injuries Department. Hmm. And then there’s always Gradiolus’s Compendium…”

Harry walked her to the floo, tuning out her mutterings, and she left without even saying good-bye, already wrapped up in the search. He nearly pressed a kiss to her bushy hair before getting a hold on himself.

He had hope now. If Hermione was on the case, he had hope. Draco was still in there, and he could be saved, because Hermione would find a way.

He sat back down, fingers jumping on his thighs, thinking furiously. It was doubly lucky that Ron hadn’t refused to let Harry baby-sit Not-Draco, because the Ministry would never go for this sort of defense. They’d see former Death Eater and just decide Draco was up to his old tricks, never mind all of the information he’d given to them training Aurors and cleaning up the mess after the war. No, if the Ministry got their hands on Draco, Harry would never get him back. Then, Draco would be living through an Azkaban sentence he hadn’t earned.

How must it have felt, Harry wondered, for Draco to observe crimes he had no culpability in? Had he been screaming? And to go this whole time with Harry blissfully—stupidly—blind about the situation. How Draco must’ve been hurt by Harry’s inability to see. Had he been begging Harry to notice?

Harry bent over, on the verge of a panic attack of his very own. It must be terrifying for Draco, riding along while the thing inside him did such awful things. And to watch while the thing hurt his mother? It must’ve been excruciating.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said out loud. “But I’m going to save you. I’m going to get you back. I just need time. And when I do, we’re going to make that fucker pay.”

*

The evening of that idyllic day with Draco, Harry arrived at the Burrow for Sunday night dinner, a whole herd of hippogriffs thundering nervously through his stomach. He had vague plans only as to how to do this—each time he considered how to tell Ron he got locked up in the expression Ron would have on his face—horror, betrayal, hurt, fury—and had to think about something else.

He’d nearly backed out a few times; he kept thinking that Draco was likely going to dump him any day, what with Harry being an enormous sappy girl, and Draco being all _we’re just sex_ and maybe those two things meant that all of this drama would be for nothing when Draco dropped him like a hot potato the next day at work, but that was the kind of thinking that had turned this into a mess in the first place.

Whether Draco dumped him or not, this had been something big for Harry, and Ron deserved to know.

But Jesus, he was scared. As he twisted the doorknob—he’d apparated to give himself some time to calm down—his fingers were actually shaking.

He went in, only to learn that dinner was ready a bit early. So he had to put it off, something that gave him no small amount of relief. He sat between Ron and Hermione again, trying to ignore the fact that they’d come separately and that Hermione’s hand had pressed, hard, against his thigh when they first sat down, and continued to do so until he reached down and let her clamp her fingers around his. He’d seen redness around her eyes yet again, and her skin was waxy with exhaustion and grief, and Harry was terrified that he wasn’t the only one with news. He wondered if Ron had dumped Hermione. If so, there was no way Harry could tell him tonight, although if that ended up being true, Harry doubted he’d be able to feel relief at the delay.

They’d retired from the kitchen into the living room, Mrs. Weasley and Fleur arguing in saccharine voices about the music they should listen to, and Harry edged Hermione into a corner. “Did you guys break up?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Rough day at the hospital. I’m just feeling extra vulnerable. I guess I—”

She broke off at the sound of a knock from the front door. Everyone fell quiet, looking around; most everybody was here—Charlie was in Romania, so he was an obvious no-show, and Percy, who was working, wouldn’t have come by apparition and front door anyway, but by floo. Harry turned back to Hermione as Mr. Weasley went to answer it.

“You’re sure that’s all?” Harry asked. “Because I’m going to tell him tonight, and I don’t want to do it if he’s already got something else to deal…what?”

Hermione’s gaze had gone over his shoulder and her mouth had formed a perfect O. Harry whipped around and saw Draco in the doorway, just in front of a nonplussed Arthur Weasley. Anyone else would probably see only the cool, polite smile and reserved manner—pleasant enough, but not really engaged in the goings-on around him—but Harry could see the nervousness in those gray eyes as they flickered towards him.

“Draco?” Hermione asked. Then her face crumpled, a mixture of guilt and sadness and relief. Tears began to fall. “Oh, don’t. Don’t.”

Ron got up, face already stormy at Hermione’s reaction, and Harry opened his mouth, not quite figuring out what words to say before Hermione spoke again. “You don’t have to, Draco,” she said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Draco gave her a tiny nod, and then looked at Harry. “I’ll take care of that other thing, too, while I’m at it, if that’s all right.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what that meant, at first, what with his brain feeling trapped in molasses by Draco’s sudden presence. Draco turned his head, and said, “Weasley. You got a minute?”

Ron was dark red already, and his hands were clenched into fists. It didn’t take a genius to know what he thought was about to happen here, and he preceded Draco outside into the night without a word, cracking his knuckles. Harry—along with virtually everyone else—immediately went to a window. As he watched Ron’s tense form—nearly vibrating with the need for violence—slowly soften into confusion as Draco spoke, then sag into relief, and then begin to tense up once more, Harry realized exactly what Draco had meant with the cryptic ‘other thing’ he’d mentioned.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and headed toward the door, figuring they’d gotten to the point where he should make an appearance.

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley cried, setting George and Bill off into chortles at their mother’s shock.

“Sorry,” he said grimly. He brushed past her and went out, his heels making clicking sounds on the porch and bringing the conversation between Draco and Ron to a halt.

“Is it true?” Ron asked him.

Not sure if Draco had gotten to the part about him and Harry fucking, Harry hesitated, but then decided that it didn’t really matter—it was all true anyway. So he nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He couldn’t really see Ron’s face from here, and getting closer didn’t help much. His cheeks had gone from red to white, and his eyes were narrow, his mouth a hard line, but Harry wasn’t able to judge the degree of upset. Was it fury at the lie? Hurt at the betrayal? Were they about to have a fight or was their friendship over?

“I didn’t tell you about Draco’s therapy because—”

Ron’s hand slashed through the shadows. “No, I get that. That’s…whatever, that’s fine. I mean about you fucking him.” He jerked his chin at Draco at that last part.

Harry swallowed hard, and then started when Draco’s voice sounded emptily from the darkness.

“Because it was just sex. You had enough on your plate dealing with the conflict with Hermione and he didn’t want to bother you with something so inconsequential.”

Ron made a face, one that Harry couldn’t miss even in such low light. It was very _shut the fuck up and let him tell it._ Harry’s shoulders fell, and only part of it was Ron’s reaction. A large chunk of his brain got hung up on the words _so inconsequential._

“Is that right?” Ron asked.

“That’s how it was in the beginning,” Harry said.

“Potter,” Draco said. “Let it lie. He’s your best friend. I’m a mistake and I’m out of the picture. This can’t be worth it to you. Not when it’s doing this to…just…let it lie.”

“He’s out of the picture?” Ron asked. His voice was thick, meaty with anger. There was also a hint of pleading to it. _Tell me it’s over, and we can be okay._ Harry closed his eyes. He’d been on the receiving end of substantial anger from Ron before, but it had never been this justified. And the plea was just as well earned. So much of Harry wanted to do as Draco had suggested and let it be true that they were done, but a deeper part of Harry couldn’t quite say it.

When Harry didn’t respond, Ron snapped at Draco, “Doesn’t look like you’re out of the picture. Fuck, Malfoy, you just can’t get enough of fucking up my life, can you?”

“If it helps,” Draco said quietly, “I’ve never actually wanted to hurt you. You were never anything but…incidental.”

“No, strangely, that doesn’t help at all.” Ron started back toward the house, brushing shoulders with Draco hard enough that he nearly knocked the smaller man off his feet. Harry winced, taking a step forward before he could help himself. Other than recovering his balance, Draco didn’t react.

Ron got to the base of the stairs and paused. “Are you coming, Harry?”

“Ron,” Harry began in a low voice.

“Fuck that,” Ron snapped. “Either stay here with him or come in my fucking house with me and be my best friend like you’re supposed to be. But choose something. Now.”

“Go,” Draco said quietly. “It’s all right.”

“Don’t do that,” Ron shouted. “Don’t talk to him like you have some sway over him. Like you get to choose. You’re the cause of all this!”

Draco didn’t look at Ron; the redhead might as well have not even existed. He only studied Harry. “We’re just—”

“Don’t!” Harry forced out. “Don’t say that! Fuck!”

Draco flinched. After a moment, he said, “He’s your family.”

“Is this at all hard for you?” Harry asked, genuinely unsure, and unable to make any move without knowing.

“A bit,” Draco admitted, looking as if he’d been asked if he wanted more wine. “But no, I don’t, if that’s what you’re really asking. I don’t love you.”

Harry nodded, then shifted around and glanced at Ron, who stood slightly behind him and off to his left, bathed in the light from the living room windows, where half a dozen faces, including Hermione’s, were still all-but pressed to the glass. He couldn’t believe how deep Draco’s words had cut. They’d made the kind of wound that struck a foundation. That had been a load-bearing nerve, and now a part of Harry was crumpling.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Yeah, okay.”

“All right, Weasley?” Draco asked. “Do tell Hermione I said hello.”

That last barbed sentence made Harry blink, but only the words were venomous; Draco’s face remained blank and casually pleasant. Robot Malfoy strikes again, he thought vaguely.

“Get off my property, Malfoy,” Ron snapped, vehemence writ large in every line of his face. He aimed a sharp glance at Harry. “Are you staying or going?”

Harry shrank under the censure in those blue eyes, but it was the hurt lodged just behind it that kept him rooted in place as he listened to Draco’s footsteps crunching dry grass and the remnants of snow. He listened for several long moments, then turned at the last second. Draco was only a small figure at the end of the drive, a pale shape in the darkness, and something in Harry snapped when he heard the crack of apparition and Draco vanished.

“So you’re coming in?” Ron asked, voice hard.

“No,” Harry managed. “I mean, in a minute. I just…need a minute.”

“You need a minute,” Ron repeated.

“Yes, Ron, I need a fucking minute.” The anger suddenly drained and he sank down to sit on a porch step. “I’m here, all right? You can yell at me all you want. I deserve it, I know that. Just…in a minute, okay?”

Ron stood there for a few long seconds, then left him there.

Harry could hear Hermione’s voice a minute later, the tone complex and hard to decipher, especially through walls, but he only sat in the cold, felt the cold seep in, eating away all his warmth, and stared at the place where Draco had stood not two minutes before. He wondered if Draco was having a panic attack, or if, instead, worse and better at the same time, he was actually fine. Sad, perhaps, maybe a little melancholy, but resigned to the decision and already thinking about what he might do to fill the rest of his evening.

When Harry finally went inside, it was to a Ron that glared at him but sat beside Hermione. And Harry thought, _thank you, Draco._

*

Less than an hour after Hermione left, the floo belched fire once more, and Draco—or the creature wearing Draco’s face—stepped out, smooth and calm. He—it—brushed ash from his shoulders.

“Hello, Harry,” It said, smiling down at him where he sat waiting on the sofa. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“That’s sweet. Not necessary, but sweet.”

“Anytime. What’s that you’ve got there?”

The Draco-Creature’s smile widened. “Oh, this chest? Just some ingredients for a new potion I want to develop. Nothing important. Give me a minute to put it away and we can have dinner?”

“Sounds good,” Harry said. “There were some things I wanted to talk about.”

“All right.” The Draco-Creature headed for the basement, probably to dump the chest—which positively reeked of magic—and Harry watched Its retreating back grimly the whole time. “Is it anything serious?” It called from downstairs, tone casual.

“Nah,” Harry called back, nearly laughing at the strength of his own lie. “I just feel like I haven’t gotten much time with you over the last few days. Thought we could catch up. I want to know what you’re up to.”

The Draco-Creature thing came back upstairs, one eyebrow raised. “You want to know what I’m up to?”

“Sure,” Harry said, keeping his face innocent and warm, thinking the whole time _hear me, Draco. I’m talking to you_. _If you’re in there, hear me._ “I miss you, Draco. You’re everything to me. I hate it when there’s distance between us. So let’s spend the evening together, yeah? Watch a movie? Maybe catch up a little?”

*

Holy fuck, Draco thought, scrambling to hide his thoughts. He threw up the divide, barely catching himself in time, and staring at Harry’s blank, guileless face in shock.

Harry was not stupid.

Harry was never guileless or blank.

Harry never said cornball stuff like “I miss you” or “I hate it when there’s distance between us.”

Draco struggled to keep the divide up, because it was the only thing keeping Harry alive right now.

Because Harry knew.

 

 

 


	9. Without You Everything Falls Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Some of the horror elements get stronger now that we're nearing the end. Be aware if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, and though I'll miss you if you have to take off, do what you gotta do to not be head-crazy. I think it's still relatively mild, but one of my favorite movies is 28 Days Later, so my stomach for horror could be considered downright sturdy. It's all subjective and only you can prevent forest fires...ahem. That was supposed to read that only you know your limits. I should not write A/N's when I've been writing for six hours straight, because I get punchy and weird.
> 
> 2\. I'm very sorry for the long delay. I picked up a complication from my surgery, and I spent the last two weeks so sick that the effort of typing was seriously beyond me. I am incredibly better now (knock on wood) and I'm already hard at work on the next to last chapter, so we should hopefully get to the end soon without further drama.
> 
> 3\. My window of good health did not coincide with my usual beta reader's window of available time for offering me critique (though she will likely be back next week), so I had to seek help from an outside source. Considering it was her first time playing beta, she did an outstanding job, particularly considering the potential awkwardness of discussing explicit sex scenes, so props to liahmpd for her help.
> 
> 4\. Finally, thanks to Nine Inch Nails for the chapter title. (It comes from The Perfect Drug, just in case you care).

 

Despite Ron’s determination that Harry should stay at the Burrow after Draco left, he kicked Harry out not three minutes after he went back inside, claiming that he needed to talk to Hermione first. Harry had begun to offer to wait, but Ron had said shortly that it would be in Harry’s best interest to put off any conversation until Ron had gotten a chance to calm down. Harry ended up back in his dreary little flat still shaking with cold and shock from the confrontation. He’d unwound his scarf, summoned a bottle of firewhisky, and proceeded to get utterly pissed.

He slept in one of the armchairs and woke up on Monday morning with such a severe crick in his neck that he knew he would spend the next two days unable to look to the left. More unpleasantly, he didn’t make it to the hangover potion in time to avoid sicking up.

Leaning miserably over the toilet, he had to admit that he had played his hand rather badly. Worse, he wasn’t sure, when the smoke cleared, what he might have left.

*

Harry’s babysitting of the Draco-Creature proved two things.

First, it wasn’t Polyjuice Potion.

Harry stayed directly beside the Draco-Creature’s side for more than an hour, and the thing hadn’t even made an attempt to get out of sight for ten seconds to take another sip of potion. Whatever the thing inside him was, it was Draco’s body being used. Harry’s thoughts stuttered at that, because he didn’t like having Draco’s name attached to whatever violent thing was actually in charge in there, so he decided to just think of it as the Creature.

Throughout this time, Harry’s thinking fluctuated between two extremes. On the one hand, he hadn’t felt so predisposed to wanting to punch that perfect nose since childhood—whatever it took to punish the thing currently walking around pretending to be his boyfriend. On the other hand, he wanted quite desperately to reassure Draco that Harry would not let this go on much longer.

So he started by saying, “I was thinking about sixth year.”

“Oh?” the Creature said noncommittally. “It’s Goober’s night off, isn’t it? Shall we have pasta?”

“Pasta sounds good. But, anyway, ever since the accident, I’ve been thinking about the past a lot. Stupid, maybe, but I was remembering that time in the bathroom. When we…well, you know. And I realized I never asked you about that.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, standing in the chill of the cooling charms in the pantry, alert for any reaction.

The Creature was pulling a pot from a cabinet and paused. Its face—so familiar, so beloved—wore an awkward expression: a blend of hesitation, wariness, and polite interest. “I’m getting rather hungry, Potter. Can we save the deeply meaningful chats for after dinner?”

“Would you have done it?” Harry asked.

Harry looked deep into gray eyes and thought _please be in there. Please._

The Creature’s gaze went ever so slightly down and to the left before flickering back up to Harry’s.

“I would have used _Crucio_ on you, yes,” the Creature said. “And no, before you ask, I didn’t feel bad about it. I didn’t feel bad about breaking your nose, either. Same with the time I used _Petrificus Totalus_ on you and stripped you naked in front of Slytherin House. Although I enjoyed that last one a bit more. Can we eat now?”

 _Thank fuck,_ Harry thought, a burst of pure joy ripping through him.

The Creature was getting that sort of information from somewhere. If Draco had died or been supplanted, leaving the Creature dependent on the remnants of Draco’s memories, It never would’ve added the detail about stripping Harry naked, because that had never happened.

So besides knowing that it wasn’t Polyjuice Potion at work, he now also knew that Draco was in there. He was alive. He was fighting. And he was letting Harry know.

Gods bless that canny little bastard.

Harry crossed the kitchen, tugged the pot free from the Creature’s grip and set it on the counter. Then he cupped that pale face in his hands. He looked into those gray eyes, eyes that he’d stared into thousands of times before, under all sorts of circumstances, and spoke directly to the part of Draco that remained. "I love you. It's been a hard couple weeks, I know, and I think I've been sort of a shitty boyfriend to you, but that's done now."

The Creature was listening attentively, and Harry could only hope that Draco was hearing the double meaning in his words. Particularly since he was having a hell of a time figuring out how to reassure Draco while also convincing the Creature that It didn't need to kill Narcissa to maintain Its cover. Harry stumblingly added, “She said she doesn’t know who attacked her, but…she’s going to be all right. I know you said you were okay but just in case you're doing that thing where you try to be all strong and stoic, I'm just saying she's going to be fine. And there's an Auror on her door so no one hurts her again." _Hear me, Draco._ He kept going.“I’m going to do a better job taking care of you now, okay? Fuck, that’s cheesy. Sorry. But yeah, I guess that's my whole point. You're not alone in this, because I'm going to get my shit together and take care of you.”

He was getting a little angry again, actually, thinking about Draco locked away in there without comfort, which meant it was time to be done with this mess before he gave something away out of sheer temper. He cleared his throat. All he could do was trust that Draco had gotten the message.

*

**What the hell is he doing?**

Draco, locked in that tiny part of his mind, had gotten a little lost in the words and the gentle grip on his jaw. He was caught between knowing and not knowing, feeling the gratitude and safety that came with Harry’s knowledge while also trying to deny that it existed. Draco could not afford to be aware of what those words meant—or who they were actually directed to. Not if he wanted Harry alive.

But deep inside, something that had been knotted and unspeakable warmed.

Harry had always been able to do this to him. At every stage of their relationship, Draco had fought to retain his autonomy only to slowly lose ground to Harry’s stubbornness and steady, quiet support and unerring ability to see beneath Draco’s surface. Draco would be brusque and formal, strong-arming Harry to keep him at a distance, and every single time, Harry snuck in. He pushed and wheedled and dodged, and somehow Draco, who wanted only to be left alone, would find himself being kissed, being touched, being held, being listened to, being loved. He’d thought, more than once, that there might be relief in ending the relationship. That he’d be able to breathe. That nothing Harry could do for him would be worth what Harry did _to_ him.

Right now, Draco knew exactly one thing for certain.

He was a fucking idiot.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thought to Harry. _I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you._

**Be pathetic on your own time. Explain now. What is this?**

_He’s being supportive._ _He’s offering to give me what I need._

 **Why?** The Creature sounded legitimately perplexed, like Harry had just asked if he could dye the Creature’s hair blue.

_That’s what you do when you’re in love. He loves me. He thinks I’m in pain, so he’s trying to help._

**This is love?**

The Creature didn’t fight Harry’s hold. It simply stood there, looking back at Harry, and Draco didn’t really hear the Creature’s thought; he was too busy stealing the opportunity to study Harry’s face. Those blazing green eyes, shadowed with fatigue but still so determined and kind. The square jaw and the lines of strain around his mouth. If Draco could’ve, he would’ve raised his own hand, caressed those soft lips with his thumb, and said, _you stupid twat. Why are you with me? You could do so much better._

Harry stroked his thumb along Draco’s cheekbone. “I will do whatever it takes, Draco, to make it better for you.”

 _He means he’ll do whatever it takes to ease your pain,_ Draco thought hurriedly.

“You would give anything for me?” The Creature asked Harry; Its voice came out a little breathy. Draco nearly rolled his eyes at the sound—not that he had control of them, but the impulse was there. He watched as Harry flinched almost imperceptibly and struggled not to consider why that reaction took place (protect Harry, protect Harry, don’t _think_ ). Instead, he simply stared at Harry, warm and breathing and _aware_. And still promising to do anything it took to make Draco safe.

“Yes, Draco,” Harry said. “Anything.”

**This is love? This feeling?**

_Um. Wait. What?_ Draco’s attention shifted from the determined devotion in Harry’s eyes to the subtle thread of emotion coloring the Creature’s thoughts. It wasn’t just interest. There was something else. Not affection, really. Nothing so potent. But something about Harry’s comments had gotten under Its skin. _Wait. That’s not…_

The Creature tilted Its head, eyes narrowing. “Harry,” It said, nearly licking Its lips, as if trying on the word anew, tasting it.

_That’s not what we call him!_

The Creature cocked Its head. “My Harry.”

Harry blinked, and Draco thought _no. No. You’re not doing this._

The Creature smiled. “I feel warm when you say things like that, Harry.”

Harry cleared his throat, easing ever so slightly backwards, almost as if he couldn’t help himself. “That’s, uh, that’s good. That’s the point.”

“I’ve felt the distance too.”

_No, you haven’t. Don’t say shit like that, you viper._

**You’re the one who talks about love all the time. Why shouldn’t I experience it?**

_Because he’s mine._

The Creature didn’t even bother to respond to that. It lifted Its hands, capturing Harry’s wrists in Its grip, and held Harry in place as It eased forward. It lifted onto Its tiptoes and leaned into Harry.

Draco began to panic.

“Hungry?” Harry said, eyes widening. “I know you said you were starving. Let’s—”

“Harry,” the Creature said softly, “Shut up.”

The Creature kissed him.

_Don’t!_

*

It wasn’t just the hangover that made the Monday after the confrontation at the Burrow almost unbearable. The truth was that Harry now knew the truth that all dumped people knew (assuming he could even call it being dumped, not when Harry had been the one to pick Ron, even if Draco had forced the issue), which was that interacting with an ex-partner that you still wanted was one of life’s great agonies.

It was the last week of the Potions Seminar. Draco walked in at the beginning of class in his charcoal gray suit with a navy shirt and a red tie. It shouldn’t have worked, and yet it did, because there wasn’t anything Draco could do to be unattractive. Harry’s skin got hot at the sight of him and his stomach turned over—nervousness and grief interlocked, so that he sat at his desk with his guts in a twist of nausea and resentment, ready to shank anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. He felt trapped between two competing urges—both painfully strong. On the one hand, he never wanted to look at Draco again (because he shone, so perfect and crisp and clean that it almost hurt his eyes, and no one could ask that of him, it wasn’t _fair)._ The opposite urge was to do whatever it took to catch his eye. Because maybe if Harry caught his eye, he would be able to forget that everything had gone wrong and he could pretend that they were still on the verge of something great.

And maybe the awful feeling in Harry’s chest could go away.

Then Harry realized that Ron was staring at him from his seat a row up and on the other side of the aisle, turned partly around on his stool, blue eyes narrowed and steady. As if he could see everything Harry was thinking and feeling, and thought perhaps Harry’s nerve would break now that Draco was here. Maybe he expected Harry to grab Draco right there and kiss him in front of the whole class. Maybe Harry didn’t think that was such a bad fucking idea.

But then Robot Malfoy began lecturing, cool and composed, not acknowledging Harry in any way, as if everything that had happened between them carried about as much weight as a ping pong ball. And kissing him held less appeal than punching him, and besides, Ron would never let it get that far anyway, and that was good, because Harry had made his choice and he wasn’t going to betray Ron again, not after everything Ron had done for him.

This was the right thing. All he had to do was stay away from Draco, and everything would be fine.

So Harry stared at his desk and let Draco’s voice—so smooth and inflectionless—drift over him. The words didn’t sink in, but that was all right. He’d had enough of hearing the kinds of things that Draco liked to say to him in that stilted Robot Malfoy voice.

_Inconsequential. Just sex._

Draco looked at him exactly once. It was during the brewing portion of the class, and he’d been working his way around the room offering suggestions and feedback. At Harry and Simmons’s table, he paused to speak to Simmons, apparently oblivious to Harry’s eyes burning holes in him. And then, after that brief chat with the older woman, he’d glanced at Harry for a second. Just a second. His face was closed, politely professional. His eyes were cautious. And he nodded once and said, “Potter.”

Then he went to the next table, and Harry began to wear his teeth down to little nubs.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Simmons hissed, pulling out their ingredients. “You’re fidgeting like you’ve committed a crime and you’re just waiting for someone to notice.” She paused. “Did you commit a crime? Am I supposed to notice?”

“No,” Harry said, unable to work up even a smile for her. “We, uh…broke up.”

Her grizzled face softened. “I’m sorry to hear that, Potter. Taking it hard?”

“Harder than him, apparently,” Harry muttered.

She nodded once, knowingly. “Rough. Well, the only thing to do now is make him rue the day, yes?”

“Maybe. I guess. I don’t know.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said dryly.

Wednesday was worse.

Oh, it started exactly the same—Draco looking beautiful and utterly unconcerned, Ron’s watchful gaze darting back and forth between them. When it rested on Harry, that scrutiny was resentful and shadowed and narrow. When it landed on Draco, it sharpened into suspicious glass, staring so hard that he seemed to think he might be able to tunnel through Draco’s skin and find the evil that he thought lurked within.

But then, when Draco stopped by Harry’s island during the brewing section, Simmons took it upon herself to ‘accidentally’ spill too much Gurdyroot into their base. With an exclamation so fake that even Robot Malfoy rolled his eyes, she suddenly claimed a desperate need for the bathroom and vanished, leaving Harry and Draco to fix the overflowing cauldron.

Harry stared blindly at the ingredients before him, his mind blank. Red goo dripped onto the table’s surface, and all Harry could think about was Draco standing beside him, waiting for him to act.

Christ, he smelled good. That damn cologne. Reminding Harry that beneath Robot Malfoy’s surface there was a very warm, very real man.

“That wasn’t my idea,” Harry said, humiliated at the thought that Draco might think otherwise.

Draco completely ignored this and pointed at the Merifilous leaves in the mortar. “Do you remember what to do with those?”

Harry abruptly didn’t give two shits about the potion slowly going to ruin in front of him. He turned his head and looked at Draco. He was sure his misery was written on his face, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care about how pathetic that made him. His eyes took in every detail of those elegant features, and Draco’s façade of controlled professionalism wobbled slightly. He looked pained.

“You have to add Merifilous leaves. If you don’t balance the acidic reaction, the potion will be useless.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said quietly.

Draco flinched, a tiny little jerk that he covered quickly. “This kind of potion is crucial for—”

“I know, but I don’t care.” Harry could feel other people looking at them; he knew Ron would be one of them. “Look, we have one more session left after this. Maybe you could do me a favor and keep ignoring me until then.”

“Potter,” Draco said under his breath. “I am not trying to hurt you. I’m being professional—”

“Is it so difficult for you to just do as I ask?”

“I get that you’re narked off,” Draco hissed, “but this is not the time or place.”

“I know!” Harry snapped back, as quietly as he could considering that he was ready to stab something. “I know, all right. And I’m sorry. I just...” He looked at the spreading, foul-smelling, oozing substance on the table and thought, rather pitifully, _that’s what my feelings look like._ And _that_ was such a sad sack thing to think that he became inexplicably furious. In a low voice, he hissed, “Could you at least do something about this fucking mess already?”

Draco’s eyes flashed and he exhaled hard. Then he grabbed a handful of the leaves and set about chopping them. Despite the frustration in his expression, his hands moved with such a graceful, efficient motion that he made the efforts of the students around him look almost embarrassing in contrast. It was like watching a world-renowned artist at his craft. Maybe it was stupid that Harry felt it through his whole body—just as he had last weekend when he’d watched Draco brew with such precision and beauty—but that couldn’t be helped. Draco was a master, and Harry’s fury vanished at the sight. In fact, Harry felt a strong desire to touch him, just as he had that day in the lab.

When the leaves were as he liked them—not ten seconds later—Draco chucked them into the cauldron. The reaction was arrested quickly, and after a moment of consideration, he threw in a few more, which turned the potion back to its original lavender, thinning the consistency considerably. A flick of his wand vanished the spilled portion.

“There,” he said shortly, seemingly unaware that he’d just made Harry’s knees a little weak with his competency. “I suggest you wait for Simmons before taking the next step. Her ridiculous little display aside, she’ll know what to do if you need help.”

He glanced down at Harry, almost as if he couldn’t quite help himself, and for a heartbeat, they looked at each other. Harry knew everything he felt was in his face; he just wasn’t a good enough actor to conceal it. Draco stared back, eyes searching, mouth tight.

Then he walked away.

Harry stared at the spot where he’d been standing for a good ten seconds. Upon turning his head, the first thing he managed to see, of course, was Ron, whose forehead was heavily creased with what could’ve been anything from rage to confusion. Harry didn’t bother trying to hold his gaze, and decided he would be best served by staring at his potion for the rest of class.

He did make time to kick Simmons when she finally wandered back, a chocolate frog squirming in one hand.

“Really?” he muttered. “So much for the bathroom.”

“I got hungry,” she said with a shrug.

“Yeah, it’s hard work ruining perfectly acceptable potions.”

“Was it at least good for something?”

“Nope.”

She sighed. “Well, do you want a leg?”

Harry felt utterly depressed, but she seemed so concerned that he took the chocolate to make her feel better. “Yeah, all right.”

After class that day, Ron tugged Harry out of the flow of exiting students. Harry had gotten better at fighting with people he cared about over the years, and had given Ron the space he’d requested to cool down, so they hadn’t spoken since the night at the Burrow.

He might’ve undone some of that work by engaging with Draco during class, but it was a little late to fix that now.

Instead of launching into an angry tirade, though, Ron just studied him for the longest time while Harry fought the urge to fidget. Finally, Ron asked, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, trying to inject a little life into his voice. “Just Simmons interfering.”

“I mean between you and the git.”

“Nothing,” Harry repeated. “It’s awkward, that’s all.”

“Did he say something?” Ron asked, still watching Harry closely.

“No.” Harry felt his voice getting sharp against his will and took a deep breath. “It’s done, all right? You don’t have to worry. He’s more than fine without me, so he’s not trying to get back…look, it’s fine, okay? Did you…is there something you wanted?”

“That was it,” Ron said awkwardly.

“Oh.” Harry hesitated. “Did you want to get a drink or—”

“Not yet,” Ron said. “I’ll just end up yelling.”

Except he didn’t look particularly angry. Torn, yes. Confused and thoughtful, yes. But not angry.

Harry took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“You can come to dinner on Sunday,” Ron added in a rush.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

He watched Ron walk away and felt a little bit better—he’d been unsure about the family dinner at the Burrow, and it meant something, he thought, that Ron wasn’t telling him to stay away.

Friday was the last day of the potions seminar, and Harry stared at Draco, soaking in every last detail, memorizing the bone structure and lean hips and long legs, all while Robot Malfoy resolutely ignored him. After all, Harry would never sit in a classroom with Draco again, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. Pretty much the only thing he was sure of was that it hurt.

And he stuck to that idea—of never seeing Draco in that setting again—for all of sixteen hours.

When Saturday morning rolled around, Harry found himself showering, dressing, and going to the Ministry even though he wasn’t required to be there. He arrived early and sat near the front in the middle of a row, much as he had the previous week. The lecture hall began to fill up around him, and Harry thought back to the drama of the past Saturday’s seminar. So much had changed since then that it felt like it must’ve been much longer than only seven days. Since then, they’d weathered kisses and anxiety, a panic attack and outstanding sex, and so much of it had occurred on a single, perfect day. A day that was swiftly followed by six hellish ones.

Harry sank back in his chair. He could see Dean Thomas a couple rows ahead and a few others he knew scattered about; he wasn’t surprised when Angie dropped into the seat next to him.

“Weren’t you here last week?” she asked, one coy eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Harry said, in a tone that made it very clear that he did not want to answer any questions about it. She ignored him, of course, because Angie was many things, but being respectful of boundaries was not one of them.

“Stalking him on your own now? That’s progress. I’m very proud.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then I’m sorry for you. He deserves a good stalking. And you could use the practice.”

He glanced over at her. Her blue eyes were alight with mischief and her hair had been pulled back into a smooth ponytail. She looked all of sixteen. He was struck by the realization that he genuinely liked her as a person, and Slytherin or not, thought her one of the most loyal and kind people he’d ever known. That made it easier to give voice to his unhappiness.

“It didn’t work out,” he said.

“Oh, bollocks,” she said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Her round mouth softened. “You look miserable. Like, really, truly miserable.”

“I’m fine.”

“You know, for someone in law enforcement, you’re a horrendously bad liar.” She paused. “What do you need?”

“Nothing. I’m dealing. It’s done.”

“So what are you doing here then?”

“Last week it got a little ugly. I’m just keeping an eye out.”

“Ugly as in…harassment?” she asked. She sat up a little straighter, a dangerous sharpness in her eyes, the snake in her coming forward.

“Yeah.”

“Well, then just call us the Slytherin support squad.”

Draco walked in as she was speaking, and Harry’s stomach tightened when everyone in the room took a collective breath. Slowly a hum began, one which sounded, at first, nearly pleasant. Then it deepened and darkened, much as it had the first time, and Harry sat there in indecision. Should he act now to offset oncoming trouble? He didn’t want to undermine Draco’s authority. He wasn’t even sure Draco actually needed his help—Merlin knew the man could subdue an enemy or a hundred—without breaking a sweat. The real question was whether or not he _would._

Draco stood at the front of the room unpacking his things. When his briefcase was empty, he paused for the barest moment, perhaps organizing his thoughts. Harry was sitting near enough to see those long fingers tremble once on the edge of the podium, and then Draco’s gaze lifted. He looked tired, with purple smudges beneath his eyes and his lips pale. The rest of him was as perfectly put together as always, but his movements as he listened to the slowly growing buzz of the crowd lacked their usual crispness. He had to visibly steel himself to look up at the audience, his eyes cool and even as they flickered over the group, only to stutter when they landed on Harry.

Harry looked back, and had he not spent the last six weeks learning to read Draco so well even when he was being Robot Malfoy, he would have missed the swift rush of reaction that crossed his face. First there was surprise, then, gratifyingly, a keen air of relief. This translated shortly into annoyance, and finally resignation. But when Draco eventually turned to the audience, his shoulders were straight.

He immediately cast a _Lumos Maxima_ , stealing Harry’s idea from the week before, and shot light into the rear of the lecture hall, where, once more the heckling cowards had grouped. He promptly turned and put up the picture from the previous week as well, forestalling any argumentation. The smell of vomit suddenly rose, followed by mumbled cleansing and air freshening charms.

“If anyone has qualms about learning how to avoid becoming this—” Draco said with a gesture at the melted face behind him—“from a former Death Eater, by all means go. Otherwise, I can say only this. All the knowledge I have about the cruelties my old comrades could commit, I now provide for your benefit. You’ll have to decide if that’s good enough. If it isn’t, leave now. We’ve much to do.”

Not a single person left, and Harry released a breath, comforted.

As he’d already studied the material, Harry was free to keep his attention on Draco. He moved well, walking deftly from one side of the room to the other, speaking in a clear voice that carried easily. His gestures were small and neat, his expression suitably grave. He did not bother making any jokes or aiming for a light-hearted atmosphere; not only was it not in his nature, he was smart enough to know it would receive a cold reception. But he came across as knowledgeable, professional, and above all else, on the side of the Aurors.

When the seminar was over, Harry remained in his seat until the last, and suspected that his presence did some good in keeping some last-minute troublemakers at bay. More than a few of the other attendees eyeballed him with reluctant resentment, but Harry merely smiled good-naturedly until they left. Finally, only he and Draco remained.

Draco filed his belongings away, then pulled a small stoppered bottle from his suit jacket—Harry recognized the anxiety potion—and drank the lot. When the vial was empty he stowed it away and sighed, leaning forward with his hands flat on the desk, staring at his briefcase.

“My own personal guard dog,” Draco said, not looking up, adding dryly, “What would I do without you?”

“Probably find yourself at the tender mercies of a few vindictive types.”

“Perhaps.”

“That makes me a hero, doesn’t it?” Harry said lightly.

Draco made a small sound—nearly amusement, mostly acknowledgement. “I’m fine, you know. I’ve had my potion. You needn’t stay.”

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control.”

“Then why are you here?”

Harry considered several lies, thought about multiple phrasings, then simply told the truth. “I couldn’t stay away. Not if there was a chance you needed me.”

Draco’s eyes closed. “You’ll undo the strides you’ve made with him by being here. Unless you’re planning on picking up lying again.”

“No, I’ll tell him. I can stay away from you like that…you know, in the sexual sense. It’s difficult, but I can do it. That’s different from this. This is about… I respect you for what you’re doing. I may not think all of this necessary—I think you underestimate yourself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s impressive as fuck that you’re managing. So I’m willing to help in a crisis. If you need me, Draco, I’m here. Tomorrow, five years from now, ten, and maybe we don’t say a word to each other that whole time. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it takes, whenever it happens, I’m here. All you have you to do is show up and ask.”

Draco shifted his face away. Several long seconds passed. “Thank you,” he said eventually, voice tight. “That’s very kind, Potter. Unnecessary, but kind.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

Draco collected his briefcase, took a step toward him, and froze. “Potter.”

“Just in case someone tries—”

“No. _Potter_.”

Harry realized what the tone meant at the same time that he realized that Draco was looking past his shoulder, regret pinching his features. With a sinking stomach, he turned, and saw Ron lounging in the doorway.

“I’m not trying to hide it,” Harry said, fairly steadily considering the intimidating, unreadable nature of Ron’s expression. “It’s not romantic. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t end up getting jumped by a half-dozen—”

“I get it,” Ron said shortly. He opened his mouth to say something else, then simply spun on his heel and left.

“Fuck,” Harry said softly and with no small amount of feeling.

“I feel like I should apologize,” Draco said, “And for once I’m the only one who didn’t do anything worth apologizing for.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked tiredly. “And what did he do that was so wrong?”

Draco looked Harry in the eye. “Friend or not, Potter, who you fuck is your business and no one else’s. He has the right to feel hurt that you lied. He has the right to feel betrayed. But ultimatums are a control tactic. They’re emotional blackmail. I grew up with a thousand of those hanging over my head, and it took a lot of therapy, but I can see one at twenty paces now. If you give in because it’s the right thing for you and your friendship with him, that’s one thing. If you give in because otherwise he’ll punish you, that’s something else, and he’s got no right to that.”

“Don’t say things like that about him,” Harry said, though it came out defensive.

“How utterly fair that he’s allowed to say whatever he wants about me but if I try to defend…you know what, forget it.” He paused, then continued stiffly, all bitterness gone, “All the same, thanks for coming.”

“So you’re all right?”

“How do you think I managed before you came along?” When Harry just looked at him, Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter. I’ll be fine. I can get to a damn floo on my own like a big boy.”

He walked out.

Harry stood alone in the empty lecture hall and wondered how it had come to this. He’d known Draco since he was eleven, but had been on good terms with him…well, he still wasn’t sure they were on good terms. But had it only been six weeks since he’d begun to see Draco anew? And only four weeks since he’d realized that the feelings he bore for the man were potentially the most potent he’d ever known, romantically speaking, of course. A month. That was barely a blink of an eye really. Hardly long enough to start thinking of things like love.

But what a month it had been. They’d overcome half a lifetime of animosity, and each had been able to grant the other aid when he was most in need of it; When Draco had suffered that hellish panic attack, and when Harry’s family had begun imploding.

And then there was that day. That single, perfect day before they’d gone to the Burrow last weekend. That day when Draco had been open and honest and soft and everything Harry had ever wanted. All the shields had come down, the spark had shone freely. Harry wanted that Draco back. But it seemed that the more he clutched at that figment of happiness, the more elusive it proved to be, slipping through his fingers, leaving him standing alone in a lecture hall.

*

When the Creature kissed Harry with Draco’s lips, Harry did, admittedly, freeze for a second. His mind went dead. When it did begin to work again, it happened in fits and starts, offering thoughts like _what the fucking fuck is It doing?_ and _what do I do? It will know something is up if I don’t kiss It back._

So he stood there, struck stupid, utterly unsure about whether or not to kiss back while the Creature pressed against him. He didn’t know how the Creature/Draco relationship worked behind those gray eyes. He didn’t know if the Creature could punish Draco, what It might do to Draco if It realized that Harry had figured it out. He _had_ to maintain the act. That got his breath stuttering in his lungs again. He supposed it would be better if Draco were angry at Harry responding to the kiss rather than facing whatever the Creature might do, even if the idea of the eventual Malfoy violence made him want to cower. So he reluctantly opened his mouth to the Creature’s questing tongue.

The kiss was horribly bad. If Harry hadn’t already known that something else was in charge of Draco’s body, that kiss would’ve been proof enough. The Creature used far too much force, far too much teeth and tongue, almost as if It thought kissing might be the opening strains of a cannibalistic waltz. As if It didn’t understand that a mouth could be used for something other than feeding.

Harry jerked back as soon as he could without being suspicious.

“Thank you,” Harry said politely, thinking only about how badly he wanted to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. It wasn’t just the wetness of the Creature’s saliva he wanted to be rid of; he felt dirty. Sick and coiled tight.

He felt hunted.

“Hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry. We should eat.”

A crease appeared between the Creature’s eyebrows. “Something the matter, Potter?”

The Creature sounded so much like Draco in that moment that Harry’s hands formed fists without his even thinking about it. He took a breath and forced himself to relax. If pulling back from a kiss too early might break his cover, he could only imagine what punching It might do.

“Nope,” he managed. “Just thought you were starving.”

“Not so much.”

And then the Creature was pressing against him again, taking his face in Its hands, licking at his lips once more. Harry could barely contain his instinctive cringe, and his skin crawled, cold and uncomfortable. He held himself still, thinking frantically. When the Creature’s hands dropped from his jaw to his hips, Harry gingerly tried to ease away. The fingers gripped hard, hard enough to cause pain.

He opened his eyes to see the Creature peering at him. It tilted Its head slowly to one side in a gesture that was nearly reptilian, as if It were looking at prey rather than a lover. “What’s the problem?”

Harry opened his mouth and…Jesus, he couldn’t think of a single damn thing, and It was going to figure out that Harry knew something was up, and It was going to do something to Draco, or, even worse, It was going to do something to Harry, something that might force Harry to hurt It, and hurt Draco by extension.

Then the floo belched fire and he heard Ron’s voice—never more welcomed—call out, “Anyone home?”

Harry’s relief was so potent that his knees went weak. He cleared his throat and tried to force an expression of disappointment onto his face, yelling back, “Hey, Ron, we’re in the kitchen!”

The Creature pulled back slowly, fingers dragging along Harry’s flesh like It was reluctant to release him.

Ron appeared in the doorway, and Harry turned to him gratefully. “I guess you need help with those files after all, then,” he said, then pulled a name out of thin air. “Carruthers breathing down your neck?”

Ron didn’t even blink, and Harry thought for the millionth time how lucky he was to have this man as his best mate. “Yup. Sorry, Malfoy. Gonna have to borrow him from you for a few hours.”

“Shit,” Harry said, hoping his disappointed tone sounded real, then turned to the Creature. “Well, um, we’ll just be working in the sitting room.”

“I’ll make dinner,” the Creature said, Its voice vacant. It watched Harry as a snake watched a mouse; waiting, eerie, empty. “Weasley, have you eaten?”

“Yeah, Hermione sorted me out. Thanks.”

With a last apology for their ruined evening, Harry steered Ron out into the sitting room and cast _Muffliato_.

“You all right?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, fine, why?”

“You’re shaking.”

Harry dropped heavily onto the sofa. His fingers were, indeed, trembling. “That thing is giving me the fucking creeps.”

“Thing?”

Harry nodded. “Sit down. I have a theory.”

*

Dinner at the Burrow was awkward, to say the least. Once again, Mrs. Weasley was in the dark as to the source of the tension between her chicks, which left her in a very foul temper. She kept depositing dishes and bowls and serving spoons onto the table with more force than was necessary. She also grumbled under her voice about the myriad problems that young people had no business solving on their own, which seemed to cover ground as wide-reaching from which career to choose to what flavor tooth-cleaning charm to use.

After George, Mr. Weasley, Bill and Fleur once more made hastily polite departures, Ron deposited a slightly graceless kiss on Hermione’s cheek. She squeezed Harry’s hand, gave them both stern but encouraging looks as if to say _you will figure this out or I’ll know the reason why._ With that threat lodged firmly in mind, Ron said, “Come on. Let’s get that drink.”

Harry felt his spirits lift a little. “You ready to talk?”

Ron nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess we’d better.”

Nightfall found Ron and Harry at a small London pub, sitting nervously with pints between them. The place served food, too, but was just shy of dead anyway, so there was no babble to fill the awkward silence between them. Harry couldn’t help but be acutely aware that Ron was watching him as if he expected Harry to start doing tricks any minute now.

“How’re you and Hermione getting on?” he asked finally, pleased to have found a fairly neutral topic.

“It’s been…hard. But it’s getting better,” Ron said. “I, uh, guess I owe Malfoy that much at least.”

Harry’s eyes jerked to his.

Ron continued, sounding remarkably even, if a little reluctant. “We were in rough shape,” he admitted. “It sort of snowballed on us. One day we were talking about Malfoy—which I do get, now that I know the truth, because I’m not a fucking child, whatever the two of you might think—” He broke off, eyeballing Harry a bit grudgingly, then took a breath. “So one minute we’re talking about Malfoy and the next it’s about how jealous I can be and how she puts her work ahead of everything, and all this old crap that we never really resolve that keeps coming up and then…well, then Malfoy explained and it all just seemed so…bloody stupid, really. All the years we put in, all the rubbish we’ve been through, and it got so rocky over me doubting her motives and her resentment that I was doubting her motives.”

Despite the weight of Ron’s words, his shoulders weren’t tight, and his voice, while troubled, lacked real distress. “As soon as we started talking about the git and the therapy stuff she just…blimey, Harry, the way she broke down. I’ve never seen her like that. Like she really thought I might walk over this.”

“She’s been a mess,” Harry admitted. “She loves you.”

“It’s a bleeding wonder as to why,” Ron said wryly. “But I get why she lied. I get why she accepted his apology and I get why she agreed to work with him. I do. That’s who she is. Rules and responsibility and healing and saving house elves and...She wants to make things _better._ It’s part of why I love her. And I’m not gonna lie—I’m still sort of shirty, but it’s like Simmons said during the seminar. If it’s not more important than the person you’re with, you let it the fuck go. So I’m letting it go. We’ll get over it.”

Harry blinked. “That’s…really sort of grown up of you, actually.”

Ron gave him a baleful look. “I have my moments.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Yeah, all right.”

They reverted back to silence. Harry took a sip of his drink, grateful for an excuse not to talk, disliking that he felt he needed one. He hated having this distance between himself and Ron, and remembered fourth year with some fondness, back when they could have big rows and then put it aside with barely a word of apology.

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurted.

“You should be. You shouldn’t have lied,” Ron said. “I mean, I get why you did. I wouldn’t want to own up to shagging that git either, but you shouldn’t have done it.”

“No, I shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t ever do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Harry.”

“I know.” And he did. He could feel it in his very bones, the hurt radiating from Ron, and knew they wouldn’t get past this sort of thing a second time. “I shouldn’t have ever started anything with Draco and—”

“That’s not what this is about.”

Harry stopped short.

“I’m not your mum,” Ron said, shrugging. “I’m your best mate. I’ve been thinking about it, and as much as I think you’ve got horrid taste in men, I don’t really…I mean, it’s not my right to say who you’re with, is it? It’s about you being a dodgy friend.”

“You don’t care that it was Draco?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Ron made a face. “Although it might help if I knew exactly why you decided to shag one of our worst enemies.”

Harry took another drink, buying himself time to organize his thoughts, even going so far as to wipe his mouth with a napkin for a few extra seconds. “I'm not going to try to justify everything he's done in his life, because I can't. He’s done some truly shit things. But the simple fact is, he isn't that kid anymore. And the man he is today...I respect. A lot.”

Ron was watching him closely, and Harry realized he was really listening. Trying to understand. So he kept going.

“One day back during the war, when we were on the search for the horcruxes, I saw him through my scar. He was standing in a drawing room, and Voldemort was behind him with his wand out, making Draco torture people. His father was there, too. And he was _smiling_. Like he was proud or something. And Draco was...Christ, he was terrified. And that was a single moment. Who knows what else he had to do?”

Ron’s mouth twisted as if he’d tasted a lemon, and Harry was relieved to see unwilling pity in those blue eyes. “Can you imagine having a man like Lucius Malfoy for a father? That's the man who gave him his values. And seeing Draco like that, so frightened, wishing he could do anything but hurt someone…I couldn’t hate him anymore after that.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “He had money growing up, and his family had prestige, and I think we all took that to mean that he had everything. But he didn’t have the stuff that matters. He never really had a chance.”

“You were raised by crap people too,” Ron pointed out, albeit without much hostility. “You didn’t become what they were.”

“The Dursleys taught me that I was expendable,” Harry said flatly. “And I willingly walked into the Forbidden Forest and let Voldemort kill me.”

Ron blanched, then said softly, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Maybe we never really get away from the things we’re taught as children.” Harry paused to clear his throat. “He amazes me. He was fully indoctrinated as a kid, and somehow, despite that, something good survived. That day at the Manor when we were captured was a sign that there was something else in him. He didn’t turn us in, even knowing the rewards he’d have gotten, even knowing what would happen if he were caught out. But he didn't identify us. He didn't rise up against them either, that's true. But it was a start. It was proof that there was something in there that was good no matter what they tried to make him. And the second the war was over and he had the opportunity, he set out to make that little part of himself the majority. He's been striving ever since to apologize for everything he ever did, everything he believed. That’s more strength than I ever thought he had in him. That’s more strength than a lot of people will ever have. He put you and Hermione back together, and even though I’d like to believe it was for me, I think at least part of it was because it was the right thing to do. Besides, I think he knew he owed you an apology.” Harry tried out a small smile. “You know, for that whole almost killing you thing.”

“Believe it or not, I figured that out,” Ron said wryly. After a minute he sighed. “I think, on some level, I always hoped you and Ginny would work it out. You've never been with anyone since you came out to the family, not really, so the whole 'gay' thing didn't seem real. And it was like Malfoy took that away. It was like he stole you from us.”

Harry knew what he really meant—that Draco had stolen Harry from Ron. But that wasn’t the sort of thing they said to each other.

“That will never happen,” Harry said. “No matter who I end up with.”

Ron picked at a spot on the varnish of their table with his thumbnail. “I was angrier until Wednesday. When I saw you with him.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Ron beat him to it.

“You looked really hurt.” Ron cleared his throat and made a face that meant something like _here goes nothing._ “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “But it’s more than like. A lot more. If I’d been with him any longer…I would’ve loved him. I know enough to know that. He fits me in a way that no one else ever has.”

“See, I don’t get that. What does that prat give you that a nice, normal bloke couldn’t?”

Harry smiled, and even he could feel the sadness in it. No wonder Ron’s eyes softened still further. “He gets under my skin. Always has. Now he just gets under it in a different way. It’s weird. I have two needs, you know? I need to help people. And I need to scrap. And with him I can do both.”

“Um, about yesterday, at the seminar?” Ron took a big gulp of his drink. “I wasn’t checking up on you or following you or anything. It was sort of an accident. I’d left my Keensey files on my desk and stopped by to get them. And I saw you walking in.” Ron hurried onwards, flushing a little. “You said you weren’t going to lie to me anymore. So…were you really just there to keep him from getting jumped? Because Malfoy’s a git, but he can more than take care of himself.”

“After the last one—you know, with Torris getting all worked up?—he had a really bad panic attack,” Harry said, figuring that Draco had pretty much divulged all of his secrets to Ron anyway; what was one more at this point? “I’ve never seen anything like it. It scared the shit out of me, actually. And as for showing up yesterday, I was going to tell you. I wasn’t trying to get back together with him, I swear. I was worried about him, that’s all. I couldn’t let him go through it alone. I just couldn’t, Ron.”

Ron shook his head. He was quiet for a long time, and Harry let him be.

Finally, Ron said, “Well, then I guess you’d better get back to it, then.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“With Malfoy. You’d better go let him know he doesn’t have to be noble anymore.”

“He doesn’t want me,” Harry said automatically, mind whirling.

“Don’t be daft,” Ron said, expression sour at having to argue on behalf of the relationship. “I saw how he looked at you. He might not want to want you, but he does.”

“Ron.” Harry’s throat felt thick, and his breathing was far too tight. Part of him was convinced he was hearing only what he wanted to hear.

Ron was going on, looking bitter and resigned all at once. “I don’t like him. Don’t bring him to my house or anything. And don’t blame me if a part of me hopes the two of you don’t make it, but…you’re my best mate, Harry. As much as I still sort of want to take a swing at you, I want you happy. If this is how that happens…I’m not such a bastard I’d take that away from you. If I’m going to demand that you trust me with this sort of shit, I’d better be worthy of it, hadn’t I? Not much incentive for you to tell me the truth if I just make you miserable when you do.”

Harry couldn’t help it; his eyes began to tear up, and he turned away, hiding his face while he tried to wipe them surreptitiously, even as Ron shifted uncomfortably and did him the favor of suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating.

“Thank you,” Harry said. Then, almost against his will, he reached out and grabbed Ron’s forearm, squeezing once. “ _Thank you_.”

Ron turned a little pink, but as soon as Harry let him go, he took an enormous guzzle of his beer, licking his lips with vigor, now completely captivated by the table. “Let’s just not ever talk about it, okay? And if you need relationship advice, go to Hermione.”

“Deal.”

“And Harry…”

“I’ll never lie to you again.”

“All right.” Ron sniffed once, then knocked his knuckles on the table. “You’re buying the next round. And you have to say that the Chudley Cannons are the best Quidditch team.”

Harry grinned, the happiness in his chest threatening to burst out of him in mad laughter. “Now you’re just being mean.”

*

After Harry outlined his concerns about the Creature currently inhabiting Draco’s body, Ron sat across from him in a plush armchair with his face screwed up in thought. Harry hadn’t seen him working that hard since third year Divination, before they resorted to lying about every single thing ever.

“Harry,” he said softly, “I don’t know.”

“It sounds bizarre,” Harry said. “I get that. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Ron’s expression changed subtly; now, beneath the concentration, Harry could see the barest hints of pity. When he spoke, he was tentative, gentle. “Have you considered that maybe he’s simply reverted to who he used to be? That something about the accident might even have made him worse? That he might be capable of killing?”

Harry went cold. “What?”

“The blood on the shirt belonged to Gerald Webb, a Voldemort supporter. I went to question him earlier this afternoon after the files came up with his name. He wouldn’t say a single word, Harry, and he was shaking like a leaf the entire time. I don’t know what Malfoy did to him, but the old man was piss-his-pants terrified. He was also about thirty shades of black and blue. And when I asked for his wand so I could look for previous defensive spells—you know, to see if he’d been dueling—he produced two pieces. Someone snapped it clear in half.”

“That’s not good,” Harry admitted. “But that’s not killing.”

“No, but Marrow got word from the French Ministry about two murders that occurred just outside of Emirande yesterday. They were staged to look like suicides, and it might even have worked except for the fact that both victims had traces of the Imperius Curse in their blood upon close examination with that new Undetectable Detectable Charm that Boney discovered last year.”

“Who were the victims?”

“Bernard Jugson and his wife,” Ron said.

“A Death Eater,” Harry muttered to himself.

“And the house elf reported that the Jugsons had a visitor in a nice suit just before the murders. It didn’t know the man’s name, but it reported that he was a blond man with a British accent who seemed to know Jugson. And I looked at the Portkey Registrations, Harry. Malfoy traveled to Emirande yesterday. It was him.”

“That makes no sense,” Harry said, stomach roiling. “Even if Draco’s wasn’t possessed—which he _is_ —fuck, Ron, why would he go after Dark Arts supporters and Death Eaters?”

“I can’t begin to guess. But not being able to think of a motive doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist.”

“He’s not a killer,” Harry said stubbornly.

“There’s one more thing. The French Ministry’s Unspeakables reported a burst of magic happening not two hours after the murders took place. Dark magic, Harry. Really fucking Dark. Something that makes Voldemort’s _Morsmordre_ look like something from Zonko’s, according to them. They couldn’t track it, but whatever it was, it’s something we should be afraid of.”

Harry thought of the chest in the Creature’s arms when It had returned the day before. He explained reluctantly, knowing how Ron would take it. But he finished by saying, “It’s not Draco. His body maybe, okay, but Draco’s not the one driving.”

“Are you really sure about that?” Ron asked, peering at him searchingly.

“Yes,” Harry said flatly. “I know you don’t trust him. But trust me. Please, Ron. There’s something else at work here, and it isn’t him. _This isn’t him_. And if we take him to the Ministry right now, they won’t give a shit if he’s innocent. He’s just one more Death Eater to them. I’ll never get him back, Ron. He’ll be trapped in there forever, assuming he doesn’t get the Kiss. Please. I just need time. A few days.”

Ron pinched the bridge of his nose. “Harry, if you’re wrong and the French Unspeakables are right, whatever he’s up to could be the worst thing we’ve seen since Voldemort.”

“A day, then,” Harry begged. “Please. Give me one day. To prove it isn’t him.”

“And if we find out something else is in there pulling his strings?”

“We yank it out and destroy the fucker.”

Ron scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”

“I know what’s at stake. We’ll be careful.”

“You put a tracker on him,” Ron said harshly, jabbing a finger in Harry’s direction. “Now. Something he can’t dislodge. I want to know where he is every single second of the day.”

“As soon as we’re done here.” Harry nodded definitively. “And I’m going to distract him so you can take a look at the chest he brought back.”

“Fuck looking at it. If it’s such a Dark Artifact, I’m taking it with me.”

“Don’t even touch it. Diagnostics with your wand only.”

Ron gave Harry an incredulous look. “Are you taking potions? We can’t let that thing stay in his hands for one second longer—”

“Listen to me! If it’s that powerful it probably has all manner of traps set on it. Who knows what it’ll do if you try to open it without the proper spell or key. It could melt your damn face off or something. No. Diagnostics only. We’ll have a tracker on the Creature. We’ll be able to find It no matter where It takes the chest. When it’s all over, we’ll give it to our Unspeakables and they can figure out what to do with it.”

Ron got up and began to pace, circling the coffee table. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it, not at all. In fact, this is really bad. I mean serious trouble, Harry.”

Harry watched him, noting the tight shoulders and pinched lips. Ron could be flighty and he could be brash and impulsive, but he was a Gryffindor through and through. He wasn't afraid exactly, but he certainly looked unsettled.

“What did the Unspeakables say to you?” he asked quietly.

Ron stopped and looked at him. “You’re my best mate. I’d do anything for you. But part of me is thinking we might be getting off easy if Malfoy ends up in Azkaban, whether Malfoy’s innocent or not. The Unspeakable I was talking to? He was scared. Really scared. It gave me chills, Harry. Right up my spine.”

“Give me one day,” Harry asked, mouth dry. “Then we’ll do it your way.”

Ron stared at him. “Then we better get started.”

Harry stood. “I’ll set the tracker and keep him busy with dinner. You go down to the basement. I don’t know where it is, but it’s somewhere in the lab. I don’t know how much time I can buy you, so don’t take long.”

“No bloody shit,” Ron said, mustering a faint smile. “Go.”

Harry dropped the _Muffliato_ and headed back into the kitchen, where the warm scent of tomato sauce assaulted his nose. The Creature was just setting the colander of pasta in the sink. “He returns,” It said. “Must be hungry, then. Good timing; it’s nearly done.”

“Yeah. Ron and I are still going to be a while. This is turning into the case from hell. Gonna be back at it as soon as I’m done eating. Sorry for the lonely evening. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Really? How?”

Harry steeled himself and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the Creature’s mouth. Once more he felt the searching tongue, stabbing between his lips, as sharp and cold as any knife and seemingly as eager for bloodshed. He forced himself to kiss back, hoping Draco would understand. He let the kiss continue long past his ability to withstand it without grimacing; in fact, it took everything he had not to jerk away. The feel of those familiar hands sliding down to grip his hips and then his buttocks had his own hands forming fists. He tried to pass it off as clenching the Creature’s shirt, as if his desire was making him want to rush.

The Creature pulled away. “It’s not quite as usual,” It said.

“No,” Harry admitted, feeling reluctant admiration for the Creature’s wiliness. If It commented on the difference in Its kisses, then surely It could have nothing to hide, right?

“We’ve just been out of tune since the accident,” Harry said, playing along. “It’ll come back, Draco. You’ll see.”

“Hmm,” It said. It began to lean in again.

“A second,” Harry said hurriedly, not quite managing to look calm. “Best see to the sauce. Might be burning.”

The Creature turned away to look, and with a swift jab of his wand, not even removed from his pocket, Harry wordlessly cast _Observo Destinato,_ a charm he’d learned in Stealth and Tracking during Auror training. It would allow him to pinpoint the Creature’s destination on any map and would give Harry a feeling of warmth when he began to get closer to his target. Just now, for example, standing mere feet away from It, Harry felt a strong sense of completion in his chest.

They served up plates, and Harry moved as slowly as he could, pausing once or twice to let his hand brush the Creature’s, wanting to seem casual, trying to buy as much time as possible.

He also watched to be sure that the Creature served Harry from the same dishes as Its own servings. He chewed each bite thoroughly, trying to get the perfect balance between taking his time and not looking suspicious—considering how much work he was supposedly hurrying back to.

At one particular moment, the Creature’s head abruptly jerked up. His mouth gaped open a tiny bit before snapping closed, and Its fingers tightened on Its fork. Harry frowned.

“You okay?”

The Creature’s eyes were hard, staring _into_ Harry, and It cocked Its head. Then, abruptly, Its gaze gleamed. “Fine. Just enjoying the moment. Being here with you.”

Harry had a horrible feeling that something had gone wrong, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine what it might be. His thoughts drifted to Ron, and his anxiety began to skyrocket. How long had it been? He ate more, the pasta tasting like cardboard in his mouth.

Finally, to his relief, he heard Ron plainly from the next room, calling casually, “Are you going to leave me to do this by myself or what, you tosser?”

“I’ll clear up,” the Creature said, studying Harry closely. “I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

Harry studied the Creature right back, a tight feeling forming in his stomach. “I do.”

The Creature smiled, a smile that Harry had never seen on Draco’s face, even at Draco’s worst, when he was casting Unforgivables or breaking people's noses. There was nothing pleasant in it; only a canny, sharp glee. It was something alien. Something inhuman. It made Harry’s skin crawl.

The smile remained even as the Creature said sweetly, “Then don’t let me keep you.”

Back in the living room, with _Muffliato_ cast again, Harry swore to himself that he was going to kill the thing inside of Draco, because regardless of the nature of It’s plans, the thing itself was just plain fucking creepy.

“Well?” Harry demanded.

Ron’s freckled face was tight with disgust. “I could barely get near the fucking thing. It’s locked down so tight he could have Voldemort stashed in there and I wouldn’t know it. But I’ll tell you one thing—the first real diagnostic I cast backfired so hard it made my whole damn arm numb. And look at my wand.”

Harry took the 14” Willow wand in hand and could immediately see what Ron was talking about. The surface had splintered shallowly all along the tip, blackening as if scorched so that the wood had split in tiny cracks. He looked up at his friend, his worry leaving him shaky. “What the hell is that thing in my basement?”

“I don’t know.” For the first time, Ron looked downright frightened.

Harry hesitated, then remembered his promise, made two years ago. He would never lie to Ron again, even if it meant that the time Ron had granted him was taken away. “I think maybe It sensed that you were down there.”

“Harry,” Ron hissed. “He’s going to—”

“A day,” Harry begged. “Just one. I planted the tracker. We’ll know if It makes a move.”

“I put an alarm on the floor just in front of where it’s sitting while I was at it,” Ron said, sounding angry. Harry didn’t mind that; it was well deserved. As long as Ron didn’t turn Draco in, he could put up with Ron’s fury.

“Smart,” he said. “Now we’ll know if It gets the chest.”

“Yeah.” Ron paused. “So how do we figure out just what the hell It is and what It’s up to?”

They looked at each other for a moment, then said in unison, “Hermione.”

Harry stuck his head back in the kitchen. “Hey, Draco. Turns out we left some files at the office. We’re going to be working there for a while. Don’t know how late I’ll be, so you don’t need to wait up.”

The Creature turned and looked at Harry. And kept looking at Harry, even as It pulled Draco’s wand and cleaned the dishes with a single flick of Its wrist, a manner of cleaning that Draco would never have utilized. For crying out loud, Draco had made Harry undergo training sessions upon moving in, just to ensure that Harry could clean to Draco’s very obsessive standards. Harry inhaled slowly as an alarm began to go off in the back of his head. It wasn’t even trying to pretend anymore.

“But I will be back,” Harry said, voice strong and determined as he stared directly back into those gray eyes.

“I’ll be waiting,” the Creature said, and smiled Its inhuman smile.

*

Harry knocked on the door to Draco’s cottage while an entire fleet of bats flapped in his stomach at the thought of facing his ex—and with a bit of luck soon to be current--boyfriend. Wards parted, and then Goober was standing there, a wide smile cracking the elf’s oblong face.

“We is cleaning,” it squeaked. “You is coming in, yes you are!”

Well, at least someone was happy to see him. That was something, right?

Draco was in the hallway, not ten feet away, a Muggle toothbrush in his hand, kneeling on the floor and attacking the baseboards with a vinegar-smelling solution that made Harry’s nose wrinkle despite the distance between them. He didn’t bother to look up.

“Goober, what did I say about inviting random strangers into the house?” He dunked the toothbrush in a small bucket, shook off excess fluid, and went back to his mad scrubbing.

“I’m not a stranger,” Harry said quietly.

Draco jumped, head jerking upwards. He was wearing old, frayed trousers and a spotted oxford—his pureblood idea of laundry day clothes, Harry supposed. His hair was a wreck, his eyes glittering with the sort of mania that made Harry nervous.

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“Life,” Draco said thickly, but Harry suspected—dared to hope—that it was the space between them prompting the anxiety. “What are you doing here? Weasley’s going to kill you, you know.”

“No, he won’t. We sort of hashed a few things out.”

“Slipped the leash, did you?” Draco seemed to realize he was on his knees doing the sort of work that house elves normally did and straightened his back, lifting his chin and affecting a haughty glower. Only Draco Malfoy could look superior while cleaning baseboards with a toothbrush. He spoke in a superior tone. “How rebellious of you. I’m shocked you’ve mustered the free will.”

“I missed you,” Harry said, smiling slightly at the arrogance. “I’m not sure why at the moment, given that mouth of yours, but all the same, I did miss you.”

Draco swallowed and looked away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s not going to cost me anything.”

“Yet. And when the other Weasleys find out? Or the Wizarding World at large? What will the press say? Face it, Potter, this has catastrophe written all over it. I don’t know what either of us was thinking.”

“You were thinking that you want me as much as I want you. That’s all that matters, Draco. The rest of it is just…minutiae.”

“Your vocabulary is improving.” Draco sighed and chucked the toothbrush back into the bucket with a soft splash. “If that was all that mattered, we wouldn’t have spent the last week being utterly uncomfortable around each other.”

Harry realized abruptly, and with a grave sense of his own stupidity, that regardless of Draco’s claims of not loving or needing Harry, he had in fact been rather hurt by the way Harry had immediately chosen Ron’s side. It had not surprised Draco—it had, in fact, seemed to fulfill his exact expectations—but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt. For all of his tough exterior, Draco was intensely vulnerable inside, alone and defensive and far too ready to be viewed as lacking. Harry had pushed his way inside, gotten Draco to make space, to begin to hope, and then Harry had gone at the first sign of difficulty.

“I’m sorry,” he said, catching Draco’s eye. “I abandoned you. I didn’t mean it that way when I chose him. It’s not an excuse, but I did think, at first, that you didn’t want me. Not the way I wanted you. But now I know better, and I…I’m sorry I hurt you. I won’t do it again.”

Draco rocked back on his heels, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “Goober, privacy, dammit.”

The elf, which Harry had forgotten entirely because it was lingering in the corner being utterly quiet, made a face at losing its chance to eavesdrop, but slunk away with mutterings about cleaning the kitchen.

“And don’t you dare!” Draco yelled after him. “I’ll get to it when I’m done here.”

“I can help,” Harry said.

“And then I’m to watch you slop water about and leave scum everywhere,” Draco said, sounding utterly put out.

Harry laughed. “Then train me up. Because I’m not leaving again.”

“Are you moving in?” Draco asked mockingly. He fluttered his lashes like a femme fatale from some Muggle cartoon, and affected a high pitched voice. “It’s all so sudden.”

“Brat,” Harry said.

“In all honesty,” Draco said flatly, losing the humor, “It isn’t going to happen. I don’t want you here.”

“In all honesty, I think you’re a liar, but I’m not moving in, you’re right. I want to take this slow. Do it right. And right now, I’m going to put that bucket in the other room so it doesn’t reek of vinegar in here, and then I’m going to prove it to you. I’m going to touch you, Draco. And you’re going to let me.”

“There are dishes in the sink,” Draco said, as if that were a perfectly logical reason for why sex could not occur.

Harry grinned, legitimately charmed.

“And I’m kind of mad at you.”

Harry nodded once, smile fading. “I get that. I can grovel if you want. After I fuck you, preferably.”

“I’m not sure you’re the one who should be groveling,” Draco admitted. “I’m the one who outed you and pushed you into choosing between me and your best friend.”

“Ron already knew I was gay, but yeah, the rest of that was sort of a dick move.” Harry paused. “Why did you do that? I mean, I get why you told Ron about Hermione—and don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. It was a huge part of why he softened toward the whole idea of us. But you knew what I would choose. Maybe that makes me shitty, and I _am_ sorry, but you knew what I would pick. So why did you do it? Why tell him in such a way that the outcome was pretty much cast in stone?”

“Yes, I knew,” Draco said thinly. “And let’s just say I’m not a big believer in waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“Are you going to claim that you weren’t going to leave as soon as he found out anyway?”  
“I don’t know,” Harry said truthfully. “I’d been planning on telling him in a way that might minimize his need to break either of our faces.”

“Don’t be daft. You’d have dumped me on my ass, and gone about your business, which, come to think of it, is exactly what happened.”

“That’s not what I did.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!”

Draco stood, brushing damp hands against his trousers. “Fine. If you say so. Let me take a shower, we can fuck, and it’ll all be okay.”

“That’s not…don’t say shit like that. That’s not what I want from you.”

“I know where I stand,” Draco snapped. “That’s fine. I don’t want more, don’t you get that? That’s why I went to him. I knew I was second place. You think that mattered to me? You’re not the one for me either, Harry. This isn’t some grand romance where we fall madly in love and live happily ever after, dying of old age in a couple of rockers—”

Harry grabbed him, hard, and threw him against the wall, the force making Draco’s teeth clack together.

“It could be, you bastard,” Harry growled, and crushed their mouths together.

Draco kissed him back.

The astringent scent of vinegar—faintly apple-tinged—hung in the air and tainted the fabric of Draco’s clothing. Harry tasted a hint of blood from where someone’s teeth had closed on a lip, but damned if he could tell whose it had been. Their tongues clashed and stroked, and Draco was making hungry little noises deep in his throat, eyes clenched closed as Harry assaulted his mouth. They rocked together, and every now and then, just because he could, Harry pulled him closer and shoved him back against the wall again, keeping Draco off balance. He bit, sucked, gnawed on that firm jaw and arched throat, sins that Draco repaid in kind. Their breaths panted loud in the still hallway.

Harry reached down, hands gripping buttocks, yanking Draco against him, rubbing their erections together so hard it nearly hurt, and Draco heaved away from the wall, straining closer.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he breathed, locking his fingers in Harry’s hair and yanking. That hurt like hell, so Harry wrestled Draco’s hands loose so that they clutched his torso rather than his head.

“Then tell me to go,” Harry demanded, and jostled Draco’s shirt up to his armpits. He set his teeth to one nipple and then the other, tasting, licking, craving.

“It doesn’t mean _anything_ ,” Draco bit out, grabbing Harry’s cock through his denims and squeezing so hard that Harry barked a curse.

Harry reached down, took hold of Draco’s trousers, and yanked with all his strength. The ancient fabric split, complaining loudly, and Harry put a foot on the crotch as they fell, shoving them down to the floor. Draco kicked his shoes off, stepping free of the cloth puddled at his feet.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Harry said, laughing bitterly, not remotely amused, already moving on to suck a bruise into the other man’s collarbone. He clashed his teeth against the elegant point of one shoulder, pulling at the collar so that buttons pinged loose.

“Stop talking,” Draco snapped.

Harry summoned lube, which crashed into his hip painfully, because Merlin knew he couldn’t concentrate enough to catch a tube to save his life in that moment.

Then he was bending, picking it up, pausing to lick a long stripe along Draco’s hip, using his hands to shove Draco’s legs apart, biting and kissing and mouthing the strong thighs, ignoring Draco’s straining erection with a callous smile. Draco’s fingers clenched on his skull once more, trying to drag his mouth to his cock, and Harry shoved at his hips, hard, making Draco cry out at the force.

“Would you keep still for fuck’s sake?” Harry asked, beyond exasperated.

He wet his fingers with lube, reached up, and drove two fingers deep inside Draco’s body. The other man gasped out a pained breath, chest heaving, and Harry worked him open with speed and a distinct lack of finesse. It had to hurt; it had to feel nearly like a violation, and yet Draco pushed down, fucking himself on Harry’s fingers, striving for more.

The only thing that rivaled Harry’s lust was his anger. Yes, this was brilliant, even if it wasn’t exactly what he wanted—Draco warm and panting against him, those soft cries echoing from his throat, the trust in his eyes, blending with the sharpness of desire—but on the other hand, Harry’s blood fired with the need to make Draco bend and understand and let Harry in again. Draco had lost the faith and jumpstarted what he’d seen as the inevitable.

Harry hadn’t fought for him. Draco hadn’t expected him to.

And the barest suspicion that it was all ruined had him ready to break something. It was Draco’s bad luck that he was the only one here.

So he stretched Draco open roughly, tugging and pressing and finding that sweet spot that made Draco’s bones snap tight and his fingertips turn to claws on Harry’s shoulders.

Harry stood, grabbed Draco by the thighs, and hoisted him in the air. “Grab hold,” he ordered, and Draco’s arms went around him, his legs clutching Harry’s hips, clinging like a limpet, viciously setting his teeth in the side of Harry’s neck even as Harry began to lower him into place.

Harry had been far too brief in preparing him and he’d been light on the lube in his hurry and ire; Draco’s tightness and the deep, helpless cry of pain he made had Harry’s eyes rolling back in his head.

“Do I need to stop?” he managed.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Draco gasped, and loosed his grip, let his weight fall, impaling himself on Harry’s cock. The sound he let out was half agony, half ecstasy.

Harry shoved him against the wall and fucked Draco with all the strength in his body, all the wildness in his blood. He shoved himself in and out, forceful enough that with each stroke Draco’s skull hit the wall, his breath knocked out of him. The pressure and heat and silk of Draco around him stole his reason, made him a feral thing, had all thoughts vanishing in the urge to pound harder, fiercer, faster, until there was only Draco’s scent and skin and sweat and those gray eyes, narrow and hard and desperate.

Harry bit at that red mouth, sucking on lips and tongue, gasping his breath, feeling his orgasm building and ripping.

Draco was working hard, hips flying, clenched around Harry as if he’d never let go, and that made the frustration and fear growing in his face all the more evident. He began to struggle, tears filling his eyes, and he shoved once, hard, as if he wanted Harry to put him down.

“What?” Harry snarled, only gripping him tighter. “Say it!”

“I can’t,” Draco cried. “Not…not like this.”

Harry fucked into him again and again, not understanding at first, and then truth hit him with a small frisson of cold. With a crack in his chest, he yelled, “Fuck,” and took them down to the floor. It was graceless and sloppy, and he knocked the bucket aside, splashing water away from them toward the door, and grabbed Draco’s wrists. He shoved them up over his head with one hand. With the other he grasped the back of Draco’s left knee, shoving that leg high and angling his the other man’s hips into the perfect position—as evidenced by the way Draco bit his lip and shook.

“Take it,” Harry bit out, furious and hurt and disappointed, even as his bollocks tightened and the clutch formed in his belly. “I’m not giving you a choice, Draco. Take it all. Just lay there and fucking take it.”

Draco’s eyes slammed closed and he arched, his cock red and weeping between them. “Yes,” he was murmuring, over and over, hips bouncing, his expression tight with anguish and fury and the mad reach for orgasm. Harry was pounding him as if his intent were to cause injury, but Draco simply opened himself wider, kicking his free leg further to the side. He met each thrust, wincing every time, making noises that Harry couldn’t decipher and Harry’s grip on him grew violent, probably bending bones, and he could barely hold on, could barely see past the pleasure clouding his vision. So close, so close, and Draco twisted against him now, wild and furious, all claws and teeth, an animal in all but name. Harry held him down, held him solid, stole the choice and the responsibility and set Draco free, keeping back his orgasm with gritted teeth and sheer will, banging Draco’s wrists into the floor over and over, his hips snapping, and Draco writhed beneath him.

“Fucking come, damn you!” Harry shouted, and moments later, Draco did, body arching brutally, jaw locked, head kicking back to crack on the floor, semen spraying along their chests, and Harry let go with a feeling of such relief and grief that tears rushed to his eyes even as the insane pleasure bulleted up from his bollocks to his spine.

Then he collapsed, livid and pained and afraid, guilty and terrified at how rough and ugly it had been, thinking that maybe Draco was right, that this had gone to a twisted place, a place that couldn’t be salvaged. Maybe it wasn’t a grand romance, maybe Draco’s faith in them had fled for good, even if Draco had been the one to force the issue partly out of his own insecurity. Maybe that one perfect day when Draco had borne no second thoughts, when he’d come freely and willingly in Harry’s arms, that day of trust and conviction in his own decision in being with Harry might not come back.

He’d had to hold Draco down.

Harry caught his breath, almost believing what Draco had told him, half-tempted to leave Draco to find his happiness elsewhere, for all that it would gut Harry to do it, because _this_ couldn’t possibly be good for either of them, and then he felt it.

A kiss.

Soft and gentle, just below his ear. Then another and another, sweet and damp and now Draco was making a whispery, contented little moan. A sigh, really. Harry’s fingers unlocked around his wrists as shock flooded him. Draco used the freedom to wrap his arms around Harry. The fingers of one hand went into his hair, gentle and soothing; the other hand rubbed lazily along Harry’s back. Draco nuzzled his nose into the hollow of Harry’s throat, and his legs lifted, knees coming to grasp Harry’s hips.

Confused as all bloody hell, Harry absorbed the affection like a dehydrated man in a desert coming across an oasis of blue water. He sank his own fingers into Draco’s hair, pressed kisses along his forehead, murmured that he’d missed him, that he wasn’t leaving again, that it wouldn’t always be this rough, that he wanted to be good to Draco, wanted to make him happy.

A few of these minutes passed, lovely and warm and perfect, and Harry sank into them, thinking that maybe it hadn’t been ruined after all when Draco abruptly stiffened.

He elbowed Harry lightly in the side. “Let me up,” he murmured, body twitching a little.

Harry rolled off of him, wincing when he saw just how stiff Draco was moving. At first, he couldn’t even stand upright.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Draco said. He looked around, naked and marked and debauched, finally finding his wand on the sitting room table. He cast cleaning spells on both of them and then several healing spells on various parts of his body, sighing with relief. He cleared his throat, ran his hands through his hair and squared his shoulders. When he looked at Harry again, Robot Malfoy shone in his eyes.

“I’m going to take a shower.” And then, anticipating Harry’s offer to join him, he said, “Maybe Goober can make you a sandwich.”

“Draco,” Harry began.

“You don’t have to leave,” Draco said stiffly. “But I need a minute.” Then he went upstairs.

Harry let his head fall back against the floor. Now that the urge to fuck had passed, he was painfully aware of the stench of soap and vinegar and the sweat cooling on his body. His arms and shoulders were aching from holding Draco up—slight though he might be, he wasn’t without his share of lean muscle—and his back was stiff as hell.

Yes, he’d had to hold Draco down, as in the beginning. But, he told himself, there was hope. That one perfect day could be attained again. The kisses against his ear had proven that. Draco had doubts, true, but they could be overcome. Yes, there was hope. And Harry would make him see it.

*

As soon as Harry left, the Creature went downstairs to the basement lab to check on the chest. It waved Draco’s wand, and Draco could feel the acerbic flutter that ricocheted back up his arm when the intact protection spells rebounded.

The Creature smirked. “An alarm? Is that what that is?”

_It’s just an anti-corrosive charm. There’s a lot of potent stuff in this lab. Harry probably just wanted to make sure nothing interacted badly._

**You’re lying. It’s so he’ll know when I breach it. He knows.  
**

Using one of the charms used to disarm the protective enchantments back at the house, the Creature disarmed the alarm, taking the chest into Its arms without alerting anyone of Its actions. “The fools actually thought they could bypass my security,” It said. “I can tell they were down here. As if they would know what to do with what’s inside if they did manage it.”

_What does it do?_

**It MAKES.**

_It makes what?_

The Creature laughed. **No, it MAKES. It is the fundamental creation of the things which walk for me.**

Draco felt fear flood him. He didn’t have the first clue what that meant, but it frightened him all the same. _Voldemort entrusted this to Jugson, of all people?_

**Jugson would have neither the power nor the knowledge to make it work. And besides, even Voldemort was unaware of the true nature of _Tua Est Terra_.**

_I’ll stop you,_ Draco thought, remembering the translation--Yours is the Earth--and wondering anew at the scope of the Creature's plans. _Somehow, I will._

The Creature just laughed again. **Come, little one. It’s time to begin.**

It disarmed the protective charms and scooped up the chest. From the pocket of Its trousers It pulled out the three vials they’d collected in France—blood, dirt, and bone—all of which had been shrunk and made unbreakable. Once more upstairs, It began to settle all of Its objects on the kitchen table.

 **Now that Harry has finally figured it out, we’ll have to be quick.** There was something off in the Creature's tone as It thought, something Draco couldn't quite get a read on. **Who knows what he’s plotting? Have you any ideas?**

 _None that I plan on sharing. Now that Harry knows and he can keep himself safe, I’m done helping your arse._ Draco paused, thinking. _If you know that Harry knows about you, why didn’t you try to kill him?_

The Creature hesitated. Finally, it responded with, **We’re too far along now for him to stop us. There’s only one last thing I need, little one. An initial victim.** Another hesitation. This time, when the Creature continued, there was a hollow note of determination in Its words. **And Harry can serve as well as anyone.**

The Creature began the long, complicated process of bypassing the protective charms on the chest. Draco watched with a rapidly growing sense of dread.

*

Hermione had circles under her eyes and a smudge of ink on her left cheek when she pulled open the door to the flat she and Ron shared. Far more disturbing was the grim expression on her normally soft, pretty face.

“We’re in serious trouble,” she said. “I’ve barely found scraps. And what I have found is, frankly, terrifying. This makes horcruxes look like child’s play, Harry.”

“Then we’ll stop it,” he said, forcing a certainty he didn’t feel.

She bit her lip, then said flatly, “I’m sorry, Harry, but I’m not sure we can do that without killing Draco.”

Harry felt his own face go white—it was an odd sensation. He found himself unceremoniously dumped into a nearby armchair, and then Ron was saying (rather dimly, as Harry could mostly hear the blood rushing in his ears), “Start at the beginning.”

“I asked Hagrid first if he knew of any creatures that were capable of possessing humans, Muggle or Wizard, and he said…” She paused, searching through her notes before coming up with a scrap of paper, “’…there’s always been rumors of things that look like other things in the forest. Mimics of life,’ he called them. But that’s it. They’re just rumors.”

She spun back to the table, which Harry now realized was heaped three feet deep with heavy tomes and piles of parchment. “ _Yeardley’s Bizarre and Living Critters_ says that ‘of the creatures of eavesdropping reptilians there can be no knowing, only that they grasp.’ Assuming that’s even the same as the mimic thing that Hagrid’s talking about.”

Harry thought of the Creature’s inhuman grin and thought it as good a description as any.

She shoved a book aside, pulled out another, this one ancient and dusty and full of pages thin as onionskin. “Here’s an account written by a witch named Grizelda Greebes, who lived in 1125 A.D. She 'was the lone survivor of a creatyure that spake in their huntsman’s voice from behynd their huntsman’s face before all villagers were left to eat and showing teethe in grins of mad joye until all were gone and she took its damnation from the Earthe, which the creatyure claimed to have dominion over.’ There’s no mention of how she managed it or if it killed the host. Again, I don’t even know if this is the same creature that Yeardley and Hagrid are talking about, or if it’s the thing inside of Draco.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, hard. “Mimics. Eating and grinning. Eavesdropping. Fuck. I’m willing to buy it. The way that thing kisses and grins? Sounds like a fucking locust in human form to me.”

“There’s nothing about how to stop it, Harry,” Hermione said pleadingly. “And I’m not sure I’m going to find anything. This thing, whatever it is, it moves fast. If I had time, maybe I could find something, but there’s only three of us, and it’s all so obscure.”

“Maybe Angie would help,” Harry said. “She likes Draco, even if they’re not all that close, but she’s a good friend of mine. And she’d be damn useful. The Auror program took her in part because she interned with Hartley Kodell the summer after seventh year.”

“The teacher who took over after Binns at Hogwarts?” Ron asked, less than impressed. “History of Magic? Gods, why would anyone want more of that?”

“Kodell’s more of a Lupin type of teacher,” Hermione said. “Now that they aren’t just going over the goblin wars over and over each year, they’re covering ancient systems of magic and historical—and abandoned—theories of magical development.”

Harry nodded. “Apparently, she really knows the ins and outs of old types of magic—she applied for the Research and Experimental Department, and just between us, once she’s done with her three years of Patrol MLE, she’s a shoe-in. With the four of us, maybe we can find something.”

“The more the merrier,” Hermione said. “Because reading Grizelda Greebes’s account of her town…Harry, that thing annihilated the entire village—nearly six hundred people—in only four days.”

Harry swallowed hard. “We’ll find a way. I’m not killing him.”

“And if there’s no other way?” Ron asked, sympathy thick in his words.

Harry closed his eyes. “Let me firecall Angie. Ten minutes. In the meantime, you guys get back to work.”

But Angie wasn’t home.

“Can you please have her firecall me at Hermione and Ron’s?” Harry asked her house elf. “It’s extremely important. Firecall at Hermione and Ron’s.”

The elf squeaked that it would pass along the message, and Harry sat back, the urge to hurry pulsing through his veins, nearly as strong as the creeping dread.

*

Their first week after getting back together was full of mixed messages. At least, Harry thought so. All along, he’d been dreaming of the sweet, warm Draco of that first day after they’d made love (a term which filled him with embarrassment and cringing eye-rolling, but which was nonetheless the most appropriate word for the sex they’d had on that rainy night in Draco’s bedroom).

In some ways they were doing well enough—casually spending time reading together; Harry coming by after work to have dinner; talking about anything and everything—well, arguing about anything and everything, but always in a way that got the blood up and made them energetic and alive; sharing the first secrets that came with liking someone.

In other ways, they were stuck in first gear. They’d only been fucking in the raw, rough style of that time against the wall, and each and every time, Harry had been forced to hold Draco down to enable him to come; the secrets they told were fairly one-sided, with Harry revealing far more than Draco; Draco would stiffen and pull back, going frosty and robotic at the first hint of real intimacy, and Harry began to despair that they would ever get back to that easy, building trust between them that they’d shared in the beginning.

Despite Harry’s unhappiness with the current situation, he couldn’t help his pleasure at being part of Draco’s life at all. To have the freedom to touch (even if Draco often moved away after indulging Harry with a few short caresses), and to taste (even if Draco wasn’t given to kissing except as a prelude to fucking) and to talk (even if Draco shied away from any subjects that were truly real—and forget discussing his father or the war—his face would harden into rock and leave Harry cold for hours). None of these things withstanding, Draco always opened the door to him, always opened his body willingly, and Harry learned to live for the five to seven minutes immediately after sex when Draco would be soft and warm and loving, just as he’d been that first, perfect day. He would kiss and snuggle and whisper sweet things like _stay in me_ and _tell me you need me_ and _you keep me so warm, warmer than I thought I could be._ Then the mood would shift and Draco would slide away, pink-cheeked and back to his regular self, sarcastic and distant and demanding and so very nearly everything Harry needed—but not quite.

And Harry would hope that if he just stuck around, it wouldn’t only be post-orgasmic bliss that led to those moments of sweet bonding. Maybe, if he could just hold on, it would become the reality.

But it didn’t happen.

Weeks passed. Months passed.

They fought. They fucked. They talked and lived and ate and bought groceries and Harry bought Draco a telly, and they ordered Muggle takeaway, and Harry moved in, and the newspapers found out, and the press had a field day, and they became a unit, talked about as one (it was always Harry and Draco, Draco and Harry) and somehow, in the midst of all that, possessing eighty-five percent of everything he craved from Draco, Harry fell in love.

And Draco didn’t.

*

Two hours later, they’d found nothing else on the Creature. Angie still hadn’t firecalled despite Harry making two more attempts to reach her; apparently she was running errands, flying from shop to shop. Finally, Harry resorted to a Patronus. Mindful that she might not be alone when she received it, Harry’s message consisted only of “Angie, please respond with a Patronus stating your location so I can come talk to you as soon as possible. Harry.”

Vague enough that no one eavesdropping would have any idea of what Harry was up to.

Hermione’s hair was a mess and sweat was dripping down her face. Ron had three half-drunk cups of tea surrounding him; he kept making some and then forgetting about it, and since he detested the taste of rewarmed oolong, Hermione kept sniping at him about his risky behavior when it came to potential spills on ancient books. Harry was on the couch, half-buried beneath texts, eyes blurry, fingers trembling with nervousness and too much adrenaline.

Hermione finally cleared her throat. “Harry, come look at this picture. Is this the black box that the Creature was carrying?”

Harry hurried over, looking down at an engraving of a chest that looked remarkably familiar.

“That’s it,” he affirmed. “What’s that say underneath?”

“Latin.” Hermione frowned, then reached for yet another book, a dictionary, and began translating. A moment later she lifted her head and said, in a lifeless voice, “It says ‘They Supplant and Leave No Souls.’”

Ron shook his head. “I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that it’s bad. That is a bad thing.”

She turned the page, eyes flying over text then darting back to the dictionary. “Wait,” she muttered. “Wait, wait, wait.”

Harry and Ron were quiet a moment, then burst out at the same time, “What!”

She scowled. “It doesn’t say how to get the Creature out, but it does say there’s ‘A Manner of Beginning.’”

Harry’s lips mimed the words without thinking. “A Manner of Beginning. What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

They went back to reading.

An hour later, Ron yelped. “A Manner of Beginning!”

“What?” Harry asked. He was exhausted and in a foul mood, and he had the sneaking suspicion that if this turned out to be nothing he was going to have to bash his head against a wall somewhere just to get some of his frustration out.

“It’s a reference to a spell,” Ron said excitedly. “It says that it’s meant to undo that which was done but should not have been.”

Hermione snatched the book from his hands.

“That’s nice,” Ron said, but he wasn’t actually angry and she ignored him anyway, reading over it carefully. She stopped. Lifted her head. Stared into space for a good minute. When Harry opened his mouth, she held up an abrupt hand, still thinking. Then she re-read whatever she’d seen.

“ _Esa Purita Momentum_ ,” she whispered. “To go back to the beginning.”

“What is it?” Harry asked.

She frowned. “It’s like…taking a computer back to factory settings. Do you know what that means?”

“No,” Harry and Ron said in tandem.

“It means it takes away everything that occurred beyond a certain point. And everything that came after it vanishes in the person’s mind like it never happened. It’s meant to erase a life-changing event that…how does it put it? “To undo the horror that eradicates the soul.” It takes away everything from the point of that horror. Not just the memory of it, but all effects—physical, mental, emotional. It’s like it never happened, even if everyone else still remembers.”

“That sounds perfect,” Harry said.

“No,” she said, and now she sounded sad. “The moment chosen is based on the moment of largest pain, Harry. You don’t get to choose the point at which it happens. The magic does. It could be the moment that the Creature took over. But if something else was more painful to Draco than that, then it would erase that memory and leave the Creature fully intact. What if his greatest pain was something during the war? Or the death of his father? Or…gods, Harry, what if it was the moment that he realized he was a horrible person? If that was the most painful moment of his life, then the spell could erase everything he’s become since then. He could go back to being who he was before.”

“I get your point,” Harry said, his throat tight. “There’s no way to anticipate what moment the magic will pick before we cast it?”

“No.”

“There has to be something else, then,” Harry said. “Some other way.”

“Not so far.”

“Keep looking.”

“What if we pull it out by force?” Ron suggested. He was staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought, absently playing with Hermione’s fingers.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Like Accio or something.” He shrugged. “Well, obviously Accio wouldn’t work, but something like that. It sounds stupid, but the Creature’s a foreign body, right? Maybe we can just cut it out or yank it out.”

“It’s part of Draco’s mind now,” Hermione mused, shaking her head. “Even if there is a way to separate the two of them physically, I’m not sure we could pull It from Draco’s mind without taking Draco’s mind with It.”

Harry stood and began to pace, frustrated beyond his ability to sit still. “There has to be a way.”

“Harry,” Hermione said gently, “It might be time to start facing the fact that unless we try the ‘Manner of Beginning’ spell, there may be no way to stop the Creature without either sending It to Azkaban or killing Draco.”

Harry stared at her, and everything in him ached, dry and empty. "I know," he said.

After a second she made a small noise and came to his side, throwing her arms around him. “We’ll keep looking. Up until the very last second. We will.”

“Hermione,” Harry whispered. “I love him.”

“I know,” she murmured.

*

Inside of the chest was a collection of strange objects, most of which It left wrapped tightly inside. The Creature did, however, remove one thing: a single bar of metal roughly the length and width of a ruler.

It was made of dull bronze, but that was where the comparison to metal ended. As soon as the Creature breathed on it, the bar began to grow and move and thicken. The Creature put it on the kitchen tile, where it whipped and lengthened until it resembled a headless snake more than anything else. It even moved with that same reptilian slinkiness. By the time it had reached its full size, it lay coiled in the corner, large as a boa constrictor.

 _What the fuck is that?_ Draco thought. The thing reeked of Dark magic, a heavy, thick, pulsing power that seemed ready to claw or feed or take.

**The Hawser.**

_That was very helpful, thank you._

The Creature laughed. **Your bravado is unconvincing. And now we wait.**

_For?_

The Creature's mental voice was abruptly forced and hard--almost angry. **For Harry to return home.**

Draco struggled frantically to think of an argument that would convince the Creature to find some other way. For long minutes he panicked, lost in the blackness of his own mind, running over debate points, getting lost in his fear.

The floo burned.

A part of Draco nearly died.

And then a feminine voice called out. “Cousin Harry? I got your Patronus, but I was already home, so I thought I’d just pop by instead of making you come to…”

The voice got closer, and then there she was, standing in the kitchen, looking young and fresh. “Oh, hello, Draco. I’ve been meaning to stop by.” She started to smile, then hesitated. Something in her eyes flashed, as if some stray memory had crossed her mind.

“Is Harry here?” she asked.

_Angie! Run! RUN!_

“Hello, Angie,” The Creature said. There was something in Its mind that shocked Draco. Not quite happiness, not quite relief. “You’re not who I was expecting, frankly. But you’ll do.”

With a wave of Its hand and a whispered word, Angie was thrown against the kitchen wall. She let out a hoarse cry of pain, her skull cracking the wood behind her with enough force that she immediately drooped and began to fall. There wasn’t time, however. The Hawser glided to her, curled up her legs, torso, and arms, slinking like silk draping over skin, encircling her with unerring precision.

The Hawser shrank slightly to wrap more tightly to her, the ends punching into the wall behind her, cracking plaster and wood easily, holding her in place.

Her eyes were blurred with pain and confusion.

“Draco? Don’t. What are you…don’t.” Her words were slurred.

_Please don’t hurt her. Please. Just let her go._

The Creature walked towards her. Her eyes began to clear slowly and fear replaced the confusion. She began to struggle.

The Hawser fit perfectly—for all of her efforts, she wasn’t going anywhere. The realization hit hard and fast. She watched the Creature approach with white-faced panic.

“Yes,” the Creature murmured. “You’ll do.”

It leaned in.

Angie whipped her head to and fro, trying desperately to pull away; her body couldn’t move more than an inch in any direction, and even then, Draco thought there would be bruises. The Creature subdued her thrashing head with fingers that dug into her jaw.

“Don’t,” she pleaded, her terror growing.

 _Don’t,_ Draco pleaded.

The Creature fitted Its mouth over hers and Draco felt it deep inside, something he had never felt before, something that couldn’t really be described it was so foreign a sensation. A crackling sense of time having been lost, almost but not like fallen autumn leaves crackling underfoot, almost but not like dry bones, almost but not like old teeth long since fallen out, a sense of developing age and decay and death, something rising from far within, a part of the Creature that Draco had not known existed.

The Creature put Its hands on The Hawser and the dry deathness touched the metal and was enlivened by the magic in it. The dull bronze turned black, a livid black, pulsing with the Creature’s breath which was not breath.

This was not the kiss of a Dementor, which _took_ , which stole meaning and life. This was something else, something which gave and infected and transformed.

The Creature inhaled Angie’s animus and exhaled death. It inhaled. It exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Over and over.

The dark force leaped from the Creature and flooded The Hawser, rambunctious and virulent and lifeless, entering Angie through every place where the metal touched her skin, entering her mouth through that sucking, leeching kiss, her lungs, her mind, her soul.

She breathed dead breath and was animated by it.

Her body began to shake and quake and seize. Her eyes fell closed. Draco watched with numb horror, mute in the presence of such evil. The Hawser held her in place, the magic thrumming through it, into her, the deadness rising like black smoke beneath her skin, sinking inside her, and she bucked and seized and thrashed as though something else were manipulating her flesh. As though she were a puppet on strings, jerked like a toy, legs and arms spasmodic and akimbo. Through it all the Creature held her head in place and breathed Its darkness into her.

Finally, finally, her struggles began to slow. She quivered in place, skin grey, eyes closed, something jerking within her, coming to the surface, and the Creature pulled away, staring at Its handiwork with a large, toothy grin.

**She is but the first. There will be wonders now, little one. I shall have dominion.**

Draco could not think. He could not speak. What he had witnessed could not exist. Not in a world with love and decency and beauty. He ached and shook and felt, for the very first time, a keen desire to let the blackness of his own mind suck him down into non-being, because this was beyond him. He was only Draco Malfoy, weak and a coward and all of his efforts over the last years had been a waste, because in the face of this he was helpless.

And then he thought of Harry.

And something inside him came to life.

 _I will end you._ He spat the thought, burning with all the righteousness of having finally chosen to do what he should have done during the first war. He would fight. He would give all if he had to. And he would do what it took to stop evil in its tracks. He thought it again, meaning it with every ounce of his mind that remained.

_I will end you._

**You will try.**

_I will end you._

**You will fail.**

 

 

 


	10. If I Burn, You Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because there's a not-very-interesting story involved in the delay on this chapter, I've included a short (#1) and a long (#2) version to suit your individual Author's Note needs.
> 
> 1\. Short Version: Sorry for the delay. Thanks for the patience. I promise I was not just watching Teen Wolf.
> 
> 2\. Long Version: It has been a battle and a half getting this bit into a form that I'm halfway pleased with, and the chapter and I have had multiple nearly-violent disagreements about how to do that. This is a mean chapter. It's been saying things about me behind my back. I'm pretty sure it insulted my mother at one point. 
> 
> This is, I kid you not, the fifth draft. The first one was just not working. I got two-thirds of the way and threw up my hands because nothing made sense. It was convoluted. The second draft was utter crap too. Tore my hair out. I called my beta reader. I was so frustrated with the darn thing I was ready to froth at the mouth with frustration. I was all "I promised the internet I wouldn't abandon this story, but this story needs to die." And she talked to me about plot for over an hour (she's a great girl. A sucker, clearly, but a great girl). The third draft, the one that I actually sent to her a couple days later, was an enormous hot mess. The plot was right, finally, but by that time I was so burned out and annoyed that the writing was complete crap...at that point I behaved very immaturely and basically dumped it in my beta's lap and said, fix this. 
> 
> And she took a day to read it and make notes before she called me and was like, It's not nearly as bad as you think it is. (Which does not necessarily mean that it ISN'T bad, just that I was being dramatic on top of that). There was a pep-talk. There may or may not have been ice cream after (for me, anyway. I don't know what she did to recover. It was probably alcoholic. I am work.). Eventually, I got a fourth draft that was halfway tolerable. I sent it back to her, and she VERY KINDLY read it a second time and now it's quite possibly not-crap. So let's all bow our heads to the wonder that is revision and gentle beta readers the world over. Hallelujah.

 

 

When The Hawser withdrew and reverted back to its liquid coils on the kitchen floor, Angie remained standing. Or at least, the thing that had been Angie remained standing.

Her skin had gone pasty and gray, her red, red mouth standing out in appalling contrast. Her irises, no longer a pretty blue, had darkened, taken on a cloudy haze. Her previously energetic movements had become sly, vaguely reptilian, and she rocked her weight incrementally side to side, slow and subtle over and over.

But all of that was nothing compared to the grin. The white teeth that shone all the way back to the molars, an expression that might have been a grotesque, open-mouthed grimace if not for the feral glee in those corpse-like eyes.

Draco hunched in the darkness of his mind and was grateful not to be in possession of his body for the first time; he rather thought she might have tried to eat him.

The Creature had no such fear. It ignored her entirely, leaving her to sway hypnotically in her little corner of the kitchen, and instead It went to The Hawser. With a simple stroke of Its fingertips, the long rope of metal shrank and thinned, once more reverting to the small, heavy, ruler-sized bar it had been in the first place. It tucked the Hawser back into the black chest and closed the lid.

 **Time to go,** It thought.

The Creature picked up the chest, and aimed a commanding look at the Angie-monster, who slithered up beside them. The Creature took her hand and turned in place to disapparate to Merlin knew where.

*

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to focus on the book in his lap. Night clawed at the windows and they’d passed ten o’clock a while ago; after so much time spent reading everything was starting to blur together. He knew nothing more than he had before, but his instincts were going haywire.

He wasn’t going to be in time. The information they needed simply didn’t exist, and with every passing moment, Harry felt the press of the Creature’s unknown plans in the back of his mind.

He’d asked for a day. And the rapidly growing sickness in his stomach told him that he’d been wrong to.

Harry thought of himself as a simple bloke for the most part. Most of the time his instincts served him all right. He was willing to break rules to save the people he loved, and most of the time, that served him all right, too. But right now those two parts of himself were in conflict, and Harry was not well served by that dissonance.

As far as rule-breaking went, well, he wanted to tell the Ministry to go fuck itself so he’d be free to worry about Draco first. Sure, he was an Auror, but sacrificing Draco wasn’t justice. Draco was a lot of things, but in this he was innocent, and he should not have to pay with his soul for the sins of another. No one should. And Merlin knew Harry could give two shits about his job in comparison to the man he loved, and as long as they played it right, Harry could take the heat and spare Ron the stain on his reputation.

But his fucking gut told him that what he was doing—buying time for Draco—meant buying time for the Creature, and that wasn’t so easily put aside. The location tracking spell and the alert spell on the chest in his basement aside, Harry’s every last instinct buzzed with urgency.

Harry couldn’t get that grin out of his thoughts—carnivorous, smug, and sadistic. The Creature would do terrible things if Harry didn’t stop It, assuming, of course, that Harry could. And in his bones he knew that Draco wouldn’t want Harry to risk everyone to save him. He would forgive Harry anything if it meant doing the right thing, even if it cost Draco his life.

The only person who would hate Harry would be Harry.

With a tearing sensation building in his chest, he opened his mouth.

“I think we need to talk about the spell,” he said. “That Manner of Beginning spell.”

Hermione lifted her head, taking advantage of the break to have a sip of tea. “I’ve been thinking about that. I’m not entirely convinced that what I read before is an accurate interpretation of what the spell actually does. On second look, the English was translated rather badly from the German, which was translated from the Latin, which I can’t read well enough to ensure that the original translation wasn’t badly flawed as well.”

“Meaning?” Harry asked.

“Meaning that there’s a chance that it will do something completely unpredictable.”

“Excellent.” He sighed. “Your best guess.”

“From what I can see? It’ll look for the worst moment in Draco’s life and do something to it which will, in theory, make that pain better.”

“That’s it?” Ron said. “That’s all the specificity we have?”

“Fuck,” Harry said heavily.

“That doesn’t do a damn thing to the Creature if his worst moment came before this whole debacle, does it?” Ron asked. “And then we lose part of Malfoy for nothing. Bloody hell, Harry.” He sounded legitimately upset on Harry’s behalf, which was nice, although Harry couldn’t really give it due appreciation on account of all of his hope bleeding out of him onto the living room rug.

“I think we have a fair to decent chance that the worst moment of Draco’s life is what happened with his mother, though,” Hermione pointed out. She ignored the ‘really?’ look that Ron sent her and looked at Harry. “I mean, a really good chance. She’s the person he cares about most in the world besides you, isn’t she?”

“Including me,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione seemed to want to comment on that, then apparently decided this wasn’t the time. “Well, either way, the Creature hurt her. Forced Draco to hurt her, really. I can’t imagine anything worse than that. Nearly murdering your mother would top nearly murdering a headmaster. It would top making your father proud by getting a Dark Mark. I mean…for the man he is today, I really can’t think of something worse.”

“What happens to the Creature if we cast the spell and you’re right about the moment it chooses?” Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head slowly. “I have no idea.”

“It’s a bad bet,” Ron said. He kicked a book aimlessly with his toe, sending it scooting across the floor and earning a dirty look from his girlfriend. “I really don’t think it’ll get it done. Why don’t we just stun It and tie It up in the living room?”

“Stunning spells don’t work on Magical Creatures the same way they work on Wizards,” Hermione said, sounding worried. “Look at Dragons or Blast-Ended Skrewts. They’re both heavily resistant to stunning spells. We don’t know anything about the Creature’s physiology. Casting a _Stupefy_ might take Draco’s body down but if the Creature is immune, It might choose to abandon Draco’s body for another host. I think if there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s that we don’t want the Creature out of Draco unless we can control Its location or we might not be able to keep track of where It goes.”

“Yes, it’s so much better to let It stay in Draco,” Harry said, then immediately shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hermione. You’re right. Stunning spells aren’t our best choice. We can’t take the chance of the Creature escaping.”

“So how do we get it done without the Creature getting loose?” Hermione asked, tapping a finger against her lip as she considered.

“I was there when Flitwick cast the spell to keep the sinkhole sealed,” Ron offered. “We get his wand away from him and just manhandle him into the bathroom or something, and then I could cast it around the perimeter?”

“I guess,” Harry said. “He’s stronger than he looks though. The two of us alone might not get it done, especially if the Creature contributes any added physical strength to the mix.”

“Maybe we should learn the Manner of Beginning spell as a backup,” Ron said, brow knitted.

Harry sighed. “Yeah, better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

“Okay.” Hermione began thumbing through a book. “The incantation is _Esa Purita Momentum._ Look.”

She held the page out, demonstrating the wand movement at the same time. “And after you cast, it says there’s a ‘time of pause.’ That could mean that the spell will hold It in a sort of stasis. Or, it could mean that the spell will take some time, because the magic has to search for the worst moment…I can’t imagine being able to fight while something was fiddling with my brain, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible…” She was reading again, not paying any attention to Ron and Harry’s awkward attempts at the flick-wave that the spell required. “Okay, it says that the magic will search for and find the moment which is the most emotionally torturous and…what? Ron, hand me that German/English dictionary, will you?” She pawed through pages with the speed of a hummingbird. “Löschen vs. auslöschen,” she murmured to herself. “Subtle differences, but…I think we should do it.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, blinking at her. “What about all the unpredictabilities and I don’t knows?”

“This translation is shit,” she said primly. “Mine is better and I don’t even speak German. And I don’t just think this erases the experience, which Maynard Badmussen interpreted as erasing a memory, and even then, that doesn’t help us with the Creature, but all apologies to Badmussen, that’s not what I’m getting from this. I think it’ll take care of the Creature in the process. I don’t know _how_ , so don’t ask. But as I’m reading this…I think it means that it will undo the source of the pain.”

She looked at Harry beseechingly. “Harry, we have to get It out some way. This…this is our best bet at doing it without hurting Draco. It might damage his memory, that’s true. It might not do a damn thing to the Creature. But it might just give him back to you intact. There’s a chance, at least.”

“Could it kill him?” he asked.

She swallowed. ““The spell itself won’t physically hurt him, but again, the Creature’s physiology is an unknown…I don’t know how It interacts with Draco’s brain or mind…I just—”

“Yes or no, Hermione.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Assuming you’re right about what the spell even does. And that Draco’s worst moment has taken place while the Creature was inhabiting him. And that we can get It to hold still long enough.” Harry scrubbed a tired hand over his face. “Fuck, why not? What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it.”

“And Marrow?” Ron asked.

“We go to my house,” Harry said slowly, piecing it together. “We knock It on Its arse, tie It up, put up Flitwick’s barrier charm, cast the _Momentum_ spell, and when Draco’s all better, I tell Marrow about everything and say that I’ve been lying to you so you don’t get in trouble. Couldn’t be easier.”

“First of all, our definitions of easy are not like-minded,” Ron said. “Second, I’m not ashamed of helping my best mate. I made the choice.”

“That’s really nice of you,” Harry said. “But I don’t care. You’re not getting in trouble over this. Not for me. If I get fired, I get fired. I’m not too fussed about it at the moment, to be honest.”

“Keeps the Ministry out of the issue,” Ron said, nodding slowly. “If that keeps It from hurting anyone else, that’s good enough for me. Still illegal, but…what’s a spot of kidnapping and tying up amongst mates? Hermione? You up for a spot of the old days? The three of us against the world?”

Hermione lifted her head finally, a glint of excitement in her eye. “Really? I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Sure,” Harry said, his mood slightly better now that he had a plan that satisfied his need to protect both Draco and the world at large, risky as it might be. “It’s going to put up a fight, and there’s no one I trust at my back more than you two.”

“He’s a nice enough bloke these days, but I have to admit, I have fond memories of slapping Draco across the face,” she said thoughtfully.

Ron grinned, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and Harry took a handful of floo powder in his fist.

Then, just as the flames leapt green, he felt a tugging in his chest and thought _dammit._

The Creature was on the move.

*

Their eyes adjusted slowly to the night, not that it did Draco any good. He didn’t recognize where they were. All he knew was that they were outside, walking through a field of waist-high grasses, the Creature striding along with wand aloft and lit to provide a soft glow. Angie stumbled at Its back, panting and making the occasional snarling noise.

_Is she still in there?_

**You mean like you’re still in my mind?**

_Yes._

**No. She is a Derivative. The one you knew as Angie is gone permanently.**

A comment which had implications that forced Draco to abruptly throw up the divide. Angie’s possession was permanent—and different from Draco’s, which meant that Draco’s might not be. So how the hell could Draco get It out? The only thing Draco knew was potions. And there wasn’t a single potion in existence that could…but maybe…more than…and then he thought as quickly as he could. He might be able to find something, considering the countless substances he knew, but he needed more _time._

And if he took that time now, the Creature would notice. Reluctantly, he decided to put off thoughts like that for when the Creature next slept. In the meantime though, it was enough to know he might be able to figure out a way to kill the fucking thing. He lowered the divide.

He would find a way. He always did.

**Your thoughts are very smug all of a sudden. What are you thinking of?**

_My ability to survive where others have died,_ he sort-of lied, making the truth a reference to Angie that gave him a small twinge of guilt. But the Creature did not call him on it. So he kept going, filling the silence to keep himself from thinking. _She was kind, you know._

**Your point being?**

Draco didn’t bother to answer that; it wasn’t like he’d ever had much luck impressing the Creature with the value of human life before now. And even though part of him wanted to wallow in the news that Angie could not be saved, he knew he didn’t have time. There were more pressing matters; grief could wait.

_Where are we?_

**Not far from the edge of Nailsworth.**

Almost too afraid to ask, Draco thought, _what will we do in Nailsworth? Are you just going to let the Angie monster eat everyone?_

The Creature laughed out loud, a pleasant, almost charismatic sound; a beat later the Angie monster’s laughter echoed through the air, husky and mad and barking, more hyena than human.

_Don’t do that again._

The Creature sounded amused. **She disturbs you.**

_Too fucking right. What’s in Nailsworth, then?_

**You needn’t concern yourself with all of that.**

_Don’t concern myself? Are you joking? It’s not like I can do anything, anyway, so just tell me! What is the fucking point of what you did to her? Of all of this?_

The Creature paused in walking; the Angie monster stopped a step later, as if she were an instrument in the Creature’s orchestra playing just a note off the beat.

**Surely you have figured it out by now? It is the same as your feeling for Harry, little one. To possess. To take. To love.**

Draco couldn’t help laughing; he didn’t even mind that he sounded utterly hysterical. The Creature’s idea of love was just that bastardized. _That’s what you got out of our conversation about love? I’d call that a drastic misreading of the text._

**Was it?**

_To love is to want to protect. To possess in order to cherish. Not harm._

The Creature walked on, silent for a long moment. There was only the susurrus of the grasses brushing against legs and the loud mouth-breathing of the Angie monster following them. Finally, the Creature thought, **how do you know this if you do not feel love yourself?**

Honestly, at this point, Draco was more confused about the subject than he’d ever been in his life. He could barely define the word, let alone apply it to his own feelings. But he sure as hell knew more than the thing crouching inside his body.

_Maybe I don’t. But I know what it’s like to go without it._

**What feeling is that?**

_It’s the feeling that makes you talk to me._

The Creature was silent again for a long time.

_Maybe it’s the feeling that made you hurt Angie, too. But making someone into that so you won’t be alone? That won’t fix that feeling. And making the Earth yours won’t do it, either. Power doesn’t fix it. If you trust me to tell you the truth about anything, trust me on that. Power doesn’t do a damn fucking thing to fill up the anger and the emptiness. I learned that the hard way._

**So what does?**

_Harry,_ Draco thought, then added hurriedly, _I mean, being loved by someone. And feeling something for them back, even if it’s not as much as they feel for you…Harry knows about this crap. He’s been doing it right his whole life, the stupid wanker. He knows how to love. I bet he never feels alone now._

Draco tried his best to sound sincere, even if part of himself wanted to roll his eyes at the sheer corniness of his words. He felt like a teenager girl professing her heart, and yet, he’d never needed all his powers of seduction more. That was what he was really doing. Seducing the Creature into feeling something warm against Its will. And fuck love. He’d settle for pity or companionship or even lust if that was what it took. As long as he could get the Creature to see some form of connection besides making people into whatever the fuck It had made Angie into, then he’d consider it a shining success.

But the Creature, though thoughtful, did not respond. Instead, It continued walking until It was about half a Quidditch field’s distance away from the edge of the village. The grasses there gave way to large, sprawling yards and hedgerows. Lights shone in a few of those distant houses, but the vast majority were dark. Sleeping residents; victims waiting to happen.

It said, “That’s close enough.”

With a flick of Draco’s wand, the Creature cleared a small circle within the grass so It could move more easily, then conjured a small table.

It put the chest down in the middle, opened it, and began removing an assortment of odd items: the Hawser again, which was set aside, six silver balls roughly the size of large marbles, the three vials they had collected from the abandoned house filled with dirt, bone and blood, and finally, a black brick, shiny like obsidian, and which was doubtlessly the source of the Dark magic and dread that the chest emanated.

“ _Tua Est Terra,”_ the Creature breathed.

The Angie monster made a series of grunting noises almost similar in length and rhythm, as if she meant to repeat what the Creature had said but no longer possessed the capacity for words.

Draco could feel the brick in his hands, and the sensation of that much pulsing power against his skin made him want to put the damn thing back immediately.

_What the fuck is that? What does it do?_

The Creature ignored him, setting the brick down almost lovingly.

*

Harry conjured a map and placed his hand on the paper surface. As he dragged his palm around, the sense of completion in his chest grew or weakened, almost like a magical game of hot and cold. Eventually, his finger lit on a small open space just outside of Nailsworth, barely five miles from the cottage.

“That looks like a field or something,” Ron said, peering over Harry’s shoulder.

“Why, though?” Hermione asked. “That’s a bit random, isn’t it?”

“It wants to be outside the village, maybe,” Ron said. “But still near enough to do…what?”

“Like the village in the book,” Hermione said, turning worried brown eyes on her boyfriend.

“It hasn’t taken the chest out of the basement,” Ron said. “I’d have heard the alarm.”

“The basement…what did you use?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Now?” Harry asked. “Are we discussing this now?”

“ _Absalva,”_ Ron said. “Why?” Then he yelped when Hermione punched him on the arm.

“Because that charm is detectable when in the presence of Myrtle, you idiot,” she said.

“So?”

“So you can’t think of a place at Harry’s cottage where Myrtle might be stored?” Hermione asked.

“Fuck,” Harry said. “Like in the Potions lab in my basement?”

Ron’s eyes closed briefly. “Bloody hell. Well, I didn’t know, did I?”

“So It would have known to cancel the charm. It could have the chest already.” Harry got up and shrugged into his cloak.“We need to go.”

“What we need is a strategy,” Hermione argued. “It’s different now. It’s not like we can just claim we’re over for a late supper now and get the element of surprise. As soon as we show up, It’s going to know what we’re there for.”

“She’s right, as always,” Ron said, putting a gently restraining hand on Harry’s arm. Harry fought the urge to slap it away. Instead he took a deep breath. He had to get himself under control before he got to the field if he wanted any chance of keeping Draco intact. He couldn’t afford to get emotional.

Ron kept his words soft and even, perhaps sensing how hard Harry was struggling to find a semblance of calm. “It won’t come quietly, Harry. Even three on one…it’s going to be hard to do this without getting hurt or harming—”

“Neither of you is getting hurt,” Harry said, hard and flat. “We use the spell. We don’t pull our punches. We apparate nearby, sneak up, and whoever gets the first chance casts the spell the first damn chance we get.” He hesitated a long second. “Our goal is to stop the Creature. If we have the opportunity to do it without hurting Draco, we do it, but I don’t want either of you taking unnecessary chances. I don’t know what was in that chest, but we can’t afford to find out. And Draco wouldn’t want to really hurt anyone, not even to save himself. If you have to hurt him, hurt him.”

“Okay,” Hermione said, sounding grim.

Harry pulled out his wand, feeling the pressure in his chest thick enough to choke him. “If it comes down to you or It, I won’t hold it against you.”

Ron watched him steadily. “You sure you can live with this, mate?”

“No,” he said, but he resolutely slammed out of their flat to apparate to the field. He’d already risked too much for his own heart’s sake.

*

After setting up, the Creature began to grind a fragment of the bone in a mortar.

_Your wrist technique is crap._

**Duly noted,** It replied with amusement.

When the bone was roughly powdered, the Creature poured in a measure of the blood, then mixed them together before dribbling a handful of the dirt into the mortar.

_You’re fucking up my mortar._

**We won’t need it again after tonight.**

However much he might mouth off about unimportant things, Draco didn’t say a thing about the Creature’s lack of precision. Most potions required a very careful hand to ensure they worked; if the Creature wanted to slap something together and hope for the best, Draco was all for it. The last thing he wanted was to prompt It into creating the potion correctly.

Once the goop was ready (although the Creature’s decision on this seemed rather arbitrary), It smeared the whole mixture along the surface of the black brick. As he watched, the mixture began to bubble and the stench of scorch rose in the air.

A shock ran through his skin.

While the Creature merely hesitated, letting the spark of near-electricity subside, Draco couldn’t help thrashing a bit. It hurt badly, deep inside. Draco was never more relieved than when the Creature put the brick back down on the table.

“Come here,” It said, and it took a moment for Draco to realize that the Creature wasn’t talking to him. That was how potent the pain had been at the touch of the covered brick; he wasn’t thinking clearly at all.

When the Angie monster stopped in front of It, the Creature used Its clean hand to pry her jaw open. It then shoved three fingers of Its other hand—blood mixture and all—deep into her mouth. Watching her lick happily at the fingers—or the stuff on them—made Draco wish he could look away. It made him feel ill.

“Go,” It said to the Angie monster when she had gotten most of Its hand clean, and she turned toward the houses, red lips parted in that same parody of a grin to reveal too many teeth. It would’ve made more sense if those teeth had been fangs, Draco thought.

_Wait. Please. Just think a moment._

**It has begun, little one. There’s no point in arguing now.**

*

“Wait. Who is that?” Ron asked under his breath, peering at the figure approaching in the darkness in a lurching gait. He didn’t move; none of them did, not wanting to break cover from their spot in the high grasses. They’d apparated directly to the edge of Nailsworth, hoping to get in between the village and the Creature, and they were well-hidden, if utterly clueless about the thing coming toward them.

“That’s not the Creature,” Ron whispered.

Then the figure was close enough that moonlight shone clearly upon its face, and all three Gryffindors jerked back. The grin that Harry had seen on Draco’s face was plain as day on Angie’s face, but something about her grotesque appearance was more pronounced.

“What the fuck is that?” Ron asked flatly.

“Angie,” Harry sighed. He closed his eyes. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.”

Maybe she’s imperioused,” Hermione murmured, even though they already knew that wasn’t it. Imperioused people didn’t look like they might tear into the person standing nearest to them at any moment.

“Or maybe she’s a fucking corpse,” Ron said, even more softly, the words tight. “Harry, what do you want to do?”

“The Creature isn’t far,” Harry said, feeling the pull of warm completion in his chest. _Focus_ , he told himself. _The spell might undo whatever happened to Angie. Just put it aside for now._ “It’s about a hundred yards up ahead. It will know we’re here as soon as we make a ruckus. Count to a hundred, then stun her. That’ll give me a chance to sneak closer to It. Maybe I can get the drop on It before you two have to break cover. Be _careful._ ”

“You, too, mate,” Ron said, and Hermione squeezed his hand in the darkness.

Bent over in the tall grasses, moving as quickly as he dared considering he was trying not to be loud or trip and fall on his face in the darkness, Harry left his friends behind.

He could see the Creature after a bit, the moonlight and Its _Lumos_ illuminating the pale face and hair even if Its dark clothing blended into the night. Harry hustled, trying to count in his head so he would know when his time was up, but Hermione was apparently better at counting than he was, because when he was still twenty yards away, he saw red light behind him and heard a cry of _Stupefy!_ in Ron’s deep voice.

The Creature’s head jerked around and It immediately began to walk toward Harry.

This was good, he decided. The Creature would pass right beside him and never even know Harry was there until it was too late.

Then he heard a shriek that lifted the hairs up off the back of his neck, and heard two familiar voices raised in fear. Yelling. Another streak of red light. Then Hermione shouting, “RON!”

 _Fuck,_ Harry thought, abruptly torn about his plan of wait-for-It. What the hell was going on over there?

The Creature was only fifteen meters or so away now, and Harry’s sweaty fingers were clenched tightly around his wand. This lying in wait shit was hell. Fortunately, the Creature was heading in exactly the right direction, to a spot just to the left of where Harry was crouched.

There was another yell in the distance, one of rage and pain, and then an answering shriek, and then the field was abruptly bathed in light. Harry jumped, glancing back instinctively, thinking it must’ve come from behind him, and he could just make out two struggling bodies in the distance, showing that Hermione, at least, was still fighting, but unfortunately, it also illuminated Harry.

He whipped back around, catching the last of the surprise that had slackened those familiar features for just a second. It had Draco’s wand already raised, and Harry realized It had cast a _Lumos Maxima._ Harry didn’t have time. He had one chance. One chance for one spell.

 _“Esa Purita Momentum,”_ he shouted, waving his wand in what he hoped was the right pattern, and a brilliant bolt of blue light shot from his wand and crashed into the Creature, knocking it flat so that it disappeared into the grasses. Harry scrambled to his feet, wand at the ready, unsure as to whether or not the Creature would be conscious.

The _Lumos Maxima_ had gone out, which made him think the answer was not, but it wasn’t a guarantee by any stretch. The Creature might not have a complete grasp on Draco’s magic; perhaps It couldn’t hold the spell without concentrating.

Plunged back into darkness, his eyes unadjusted, Harry could barely see the wand he held out, and he sure as hell couldn’t see where the Creature had landed.

He nearly cast a _Lumos,_ then thought better of it, knowing it would make him a target if the Creature was still alert. Maybe the Creature was hiding, but in that case, Harry could hide too. Harry eased forward slowly, keeping his eyes on the stalks, looking for movement as much as the shape of Draco’s body in the dark.

But he couldn’t see a damn thing.

*

**What the fuck did he hit us with?**

_I don’t know._

Whatever it was, Draco thought groggily, it had connected with the force of a fucking train. He could feel the Creature’s mind beside his own, recovering more swiftly. The world had gone dark; Draco only knew he was lying down because he could see stars up above him.

_My head feels weird._

The Creature ignored him and stayed completely still, just staring up at the sky. It had managed to hold onto Draco’s wand, but seemed to have no interest in standing up and fighting some more. In fact, based on Its current lazy position, Draco wondered if It hadn’t lost Its mind and settled back to take a nap.

An idea Draco was completely in support of. He was starting to feel dizzy despite his position. It was incredibly helpful of the Creature, he decided aimlessly, to stare so hard at the stars; that gave Draco something to focus on. Let him orient.

_I didn’t know you were so interested in Astronomy._

The Creature didn’t respond; It just stared at the stars.

Which abruptly went black.

Not all over. Just off to the right and slightly above where they lay. As if something had extinguished a corner of the sky.

Or had gotten in the line of sight.

_No!_

“ _Stupefy,”_ the Creature hissed, and the red bolt shot out, briefly illuminating Harry’s narrowed eyes and square shoulders before it hit and he crumpled.

The Creature stood, stumbling only slightly under the effects of whatever the blue spell had been. It straightened and murmured a _Lumos_ so that It could look down at Harry, who lay as if dead on his back a mere foot away.

“How predictable,” It said, speaking with a combination of exasperation and amusement. “Harry fucking Potter, here to save the day. That would be easier to do if you weren’t flat on your back, hero.”

As if Harry could answer back.

Even through the dizziness and the weirdness that he couldn’t shake, Draco knew it was over. He could tell because of the stillness inside of him. He had nothing to offer besides begging, and while he was more than willing, the Creature had never responded to it before. Only logic. And there was no logical reason for It to let Harry live.

**Where are your promises, little one? Isn’t this where you offer me anything?**

_Even if I had something you wanted, I’m past offering you anything._

**You could teach me more dark spells. Help me make my way in the world.**

It sounded…curious, almost. Not exactly like It was laughing at him. It didn’t really want to learn more Dark magic, either. Draco stared helplessly at Harry’s crumpled form and thought _would it stop you?_

 **No, it wouldn’t.** The Creature sounded…not sorry. Never sorry. More resigned. As if It knew how Draco would take this. **But if it did? Would you promise to aid me then?**

 _I still wouldn’t,_ Draco admitted. _I can’t be that man anymore. Not even to save people I love._

And he did love Harry. That was the only explanation for this enormous pit that had opened up within him at the idea of what was about to happen.

This.

This was agony.

Years he’d spent, forcing himself into smaller and smaller boxes, desperate to lock up the parts of himself that were capable of such despicable acts. He’d hidden and struggled and loathed himself, and there had been days when the only reason he hadn’t drunk one of his poisons was because he told himself that he would never again let himself be maneuvered into this spot. He had control now, he’d told himself. He could make different choices.

He had succeeded, he realized. He had become the man he wanted to be. Just in time to see how fucking stupid he’d been.

Of course he loved Harry, he thought distantly. How could someone _not_ love Harry? Harry was everything. In the glow of the _Lumos_ , his stunned face slack with sleep, Harry looked quite young. Almost how Draco remembered him from school, brash and imperfect and so _good_ that it was almost sickening. But pure in a way that Draco thought he’d never been. And the idea that Harry Potter might not exist in this world was _wrong._

As Draco’s wand lifted, Draco thought, _I love you, Harry._

And the rage and grief that ripped through him at the realization that because of his own stupidity and fear and weakness he would never get to tell Harry those words made everything he’d felt until now utterly bland in comparison.

 _I can’t bear this_ , Draco thought. He threw up the divide. He refused to feel that spell go through his magic, through his wand, and into Harry. Couldn’t exist with it here. He pushed all of his agony forward, and shoved the divide so wide open that he thought the Creature must feel the space between them.

“ _Avada Kedavra_ ,” the Creature said.

Draco screamed. With everything he had, lost in the darkness of his mind, a scream of primal denial, wordless and absolute.

When silence fell again, when the noise in his mind settled, Draco could only be grateful now for the distinctly odd feeling that was slowly taking over his mind—a feeling not unlike fingers rifling through files. As if something were searching through his brain. He kept catching random thoughts and pictures and images. Odd ones: Aunt Bellatrix slapping him when he was really young, his father’s gaping mouth and staring eyes after he’d received the kiss, the sensation of his mother’s jaw caving beneath his fist.

He couldn’t bring himself to care about any of it. He felt only a blank emptiness.

The rifling feeling continued for what seemed like endless moments. It didn’t hurt exactly. It felt more like a business-like touch in a place on his body that he’d been sure had been numb. And it wasn’t only Draco’s mind affected now; the Creature's knees began to buckle and It only just caught Itself.

**What is this madness?**

Draco, dull and uncaring, did not respond.

He was done.

More memories came, pulled up for viewing by some alien awareness, then discarded aimlessly. All of them horrid. The worst memories of his life. He couldn’t bring up the necessary revulsion; it took too much energy. He simply waited it out. Everything was dim here. Quiet. Empty.

Even the memory he thought of as his worst: the exact moment he’d realized that a part of him was starting to like using the Cruciatus Curse on the victims given to him by Voldemort. He remembered distinctly his fear at his inability to correct his own course. His realization that he had become the monster they’d all wanted him to be, and the hate that had flowed through him at the thought. He’d broken someone that night, taken his victim to pissing, begging terror. Now, he remembered the thrill that had run up his spine, a thrill so powerful it was nearly sexual at being the one with the power for once.

Not an hour after he'd recognized his own growing sadism he’d gone up to his room and opened veins in both wrists with a slicing charm. His mother had followed him upstairs, sensing his upset, and upon finding him, hit him so hard he lost a tooth before binding his wrists and holding him as she cried silently into his hair.

Still, even as the fingers in his brain lingered on this memory, he didn’t particularly care about any of it. None of it really reached him in the darkness where he hovered.

He felt the Creature go to Its knees and didn’t care about that either.

Harry was dead.

And then the fingers took him to the moment in their bedroom earlier this week, when the Creature had stood over Harry with a knife. This struck a chord, all too familiar a chord, and Draco flinched. He could sense where this was going, and he scrambled weakly now, not wanting to see it again.

Too late; he could hear the Creature panting, and he tried to keep up the divide, tried to get some distance, but now he was back in his head, back in his life, back in the field not five minutes ago, hearing the Creature say the words, cast the spell, knowing what it meant, and it was too much, too fresh and overwhelming, and the cry burst from him again.

And the fingers stopped.

He felt a click, deep within him, like tumblers in a lock turning over. Something closing.

He could hear voices now. Yelling voices. Someone screaming Harry’s name. The rush of pounding footsteps.

That was when the pain began. Abrupt. Red and boiling. Bursting through his head, a wrenching, grasping, twisting, splitting torment.

He tasted dirt. His body was writhing. He could feel the Creature beside him, hear Its thoughts shrieking in confusion and fear.

Something was opening within him. Something black and cold and _final._

Draco fought it. Of course he did. He’d become so practiced at doing whatever it took to save his skin that it was instinct by now. But his struggles had the rote haphazardness of someone with only half his attention on the game.

Because he knew it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

*

When he opened his eyes, Harry blinked up at a blood-stained, wild-haired Hermione and said, “What happened?”

“You were stunned,” she said, helping him up. Harry stumbled over his own feet; Ron caught his other arm to balance him, and Harry took just a second to notice that Ron was bleeding too. But both of his friends were alive and steady-eyed.

“Where’s—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. A scream rent the air and he whipped around. Someone behind him cast something and the area was flooded with light. Harry took three steps and went back to his knees in the dirt, catching Draco’s flailing hand in his own and squeezing tightly.

That long, lean body was arching, those perfect lips white with strain and stretched in a terrible O of torment.

“Hermione,” he said, scrambling in a half-circle to look at her without letting Draco go. “What’s happening?”

She shook her head numbly. “You cast the spell?”

“Yes! So what’s it doing?”

“I don’t…it’s either looking for the worst memory or undoing it…I don’t know yet, Harry.”

Draco screamed again, head thrashing, legs kicking.

“Draco,” Harry said. He bit his lip so hard he drew blood. “I’m here, love.”

*

Draco only realized they were screaming when they paused to take a breath. Someone was saying his name.

“Draco,” the voice said, and it was a recognizable voice, one he knew and loved.

His eyes snapped open and he and the Creature stared upward.

_Harry._

Everything in him settled. Oh, not the red pain or the black coldness at the base of his mind. No, that madness still whirled, but now _he_ was still. He was grounded. Harry was alive. He didn’t know how or why, but Harry was here, holding him, saying his name, telling him to hold on, to stay with him.

 _I love you,_ he tried to say.

The Creature’s words emerged, gasping and thin: “Undo it or I’ll take him with me.”

“Hold on, Draco,” Harry said. Fingers in his hair. Stroking.

“I’ll fucking kill him," It promised. "Just to spite you.”

But it wasn't only anger in the Creature's mind. It was fear.

The blackness was reaching for the Creature. Draco kept the divide up, but he could feel Its claws, buried deep in his mind. Clinging.

Draco stared up at Harry’s face, and found it easy, all of a sudden, to hold up the divide. It made sense, he thought absently. That was how he’d learned to open the divide in the first place—jealousy and hurt over the thought of Harry kissing the Creature. The thought of losing Harry had given him the strength to make space for himself. And he felt so much more now.

The blackness pulled hard. The Creature clung. Draco could feel those claws locking, and it _hurt,_ gods it hurt, and their back bowed as they screamed, as their free hand came to grip their head, and through it all he heard Harry distantly, all soft words and tender touches.

The divide was slipping under the Creature’s grip, and Draco needed more; he traced his mind back, reaching for other moments when he’d felt the connection with Harry.

That perfect day two years ago when they’d nearly fallen in love before Draco had let fear make his choices for him. If only he’d known then that he could be trusted after all. That he could love a man like Harry because _Harry_ would never ask Draco to commit evil in the name of saving him.

Or even better: on the morning after they’d moved in together, Draco had been in the shower alone. He’d been thinking that he’d made an enormous mistake letting Harry talk him into this—“half of my stuff is here anyway, I don’t even remember the last time I slept at my flat, it makes sense that I’m here just in case you have an attack, and hey, I’ve been meaning to set you up with a Muggle telly, I think it would help you unwind on the weekends…of course, I promise I won’t touch your damn hydrangeas, do you think I’m a moron?”—and as Draco washed his hair he realized he couldn’t quite remember how the moving in had actually been decided on.

**Thinking of your boyfriend won’t save you.**

Somehow Harry had manipulated Draco into getting used to him being there, needing him to be there, until it seemed such a small thing to just agree, but now that it had happened he could see how dangerous it was because things like this always happened with Harry—Draco would intend to be good and keep it together and somehow Harry got in and then he was living with someone and he wasn’t sure _how,_ and by the time Draco got out of the shower he’d been livid, drying off with hard, snapping strokes of his towel, yanking the bathroom door open with fury on his lips, ready to kick Harry out on his arse, and then…and then…

**If I burn, you burn, little one.**

And then Harry had been standing in the dim hallway, wearing only black boxer briefs. He was waiting to take a shower—because he knew Draco didn’t like to share—and he had wrapped his bath towel around his shoulders like a cape to stay warm because the hall was cold. And his eyes were sleepy and owlish behind his glasses as he stared at the far wall, and half his hair was sticking up and the other half was matted against his skull, and his strong body was beautiful, broad with muscle and long-limbed, and the dumb son of a bitch was singing the Hogwarts School song under his breath: “Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy, hoggy Hogwarts,” and Draco’s fury had simply vanished as something cartwheeled inside him and landed at his feet. He didn’t have a word for that feeling, didn’t dare put a word to it, because all the words he had were too pale to describe it and far too dangerous to apply, and he’d realized that if he wasn’t careful, that feeling would mean he’d have to make a choice between who he was and who he wanted to be. That feeling had never quite gone away, and Draco had refused to define it because as long as that uneasy balance was maintained, Harry could stay. Draco wasn’t allowed to keep the people he loved, not if he wanted to be _good_ and besides, he’d never felt anything near this strong for them, so clearly this was different.

But he knew the word for that feeling now, and it gave him the strength to hold on for another minute.

*

“Please, love,” Harry whispered. “Just keep breathing. Don’t leave me, Draco. Hold on.”

He felt Ron’s hand on his left shoulder, Hermione’s on his right.

The screaming stopped; at first Harry thought it was over, but then Draco coughed up blood.

*

The blackness screamed with them, yanking, pulling, demanding, uncompromising, and the Creature’s grip slipped again and Draco clung madly to Harry, to everything he knew and felt and remembered about Harry. Every moment (those lovely few minutes after sex before all his anxieties rushed back, when he could just feel and be close and it was like it had been on that one perfect day) large and small (the morning when he’d thought he’d run out of the jam he liked only to see that Harry had bought more without even being asked, simply because he _knew_ Draco) and the fond little smile Harry wore whenever Draco got stroppy about his lab or the cleaning, the way Harry fought for them, over and over, coming back every time they broke down, after every screaming match and thrown vase, Harry was always back, always waiting, always loving Draco more than he deserved. Harry stayed.

It wasn’t so very much to ask, then, for Draco to try to do the same.

The blackness would not be stopped. The Creature was going…going…and Draco would not yield. He clung to Harry’s words and scent and every memory he had and decided that the Creature could go fuck Itself.

Draco was staying here.

Then the darkness reared up, and slapped them both with a rush of impossible power. The Creature fell into the darkness, grip lost, but it was too late, too late, because just when he thought perhaps he had managed it, Draco’s hold gave out.

Draco had a heartbeat to think _Harry_ and then everything dissolved.

*

Hermione shoved Harry out of the way, her wand already moving, her expression grim. She put her hand under Draco's neck, then lifted, bent, and put her ear to his mouth.

“He’s not breathing,” she said.

“He’s fucking moving,” Ron pointed out.

This was true; Draco’s upper body was still rocking around. Hermione shook her head, perplexed, and then she let out a shriek and jerked her hand back.

“I felt…” she blinked twice. “Help me turn him over. Now!”

Harry and Ron were already moving, throwing Draco onto his face, and they all saw It then, moving beneath the skin of Draco’s neck in the light of the _Lumos_.

“Holy bleeding fuck,” Ron breathed.

Then Hermione was darting in, slashing with her wand, and there was a spray of blood.

“Hermione!” Harry said, too shocked to move.

“It’s killing him,” she said, freakishly calm, already reaching in. Harry peered closer, fear forming a thick lump in his throat so he couldn’t find a way to protest.

And there It was, startlingly black against the pale skin and red blood, thrashing there at the base of Draco’s skull, reptilian and fluid at the same time, and then there was a horrific cracking sound as bone gave way.

Ron lurched away and Harry heard him retching.

Hermione said something, low enough he couldn’t make it out, and then the black thing was still and Draco’s body bucked once.

“Don’t leave me, Draco,” Harry said thickly. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Hermione wrenched the black thing loose and flung It to one side. “Ronald,” she said, and then Ron was there, wiping his mouth and saying hoarsely, “ _Diffindo.”_

The Creature began to burn. It didn’t move.

Neither did Draco.

Harry’s vision blurred but he wasn’t sure why until a tear ran into his mouth. He couldn’t seem to make sense of anything. He held onto Draco’s hand, clutching so tightly his fingers hurt, and watched as Hermione cast spell after spell, her words lost to the growing hum of certainty in his brain. _Too late,_ he kept thinking. _Too late._

At some point Ron helped her roll Draco back over; Harry took one look at the dirty, bloody face, white and bleached underneath, and flinched away. Hermione was already casting again, listening, watching, and Ron was there, hand tight on the back of Harry’s neck.

Finally, she sat back, looking exhausted.

“Hermione?” Harry asked, and it wasn’t until she gave him a glance of intent concern that he realized how scared he’d sounded. He didn’t remember ever sounding that little before.

“He’s alive,” she said. “He’s breathing—either the Creature or all the screaming hemorrhaged his voice box; the blood stopped him breathing. I fixed that. I fixed the fractures in his spine and skull, I think. But he needs to go to St. Mungo’s right away.”

“Is he in there?” Harry asked.

She was already climbing wearily to her feet. “We have to go, Harry.”

“Is he?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, and then she brushed past them both, casting a Patronus with a lime-green collar, the insignia of an official Healer summons.

“He’ll be all right,” Ron murmured. “He’s fucking strong, Harry.”

Harry stared down at Draco’s chest. It lifted and lowered with slow breaths and Harry found himself fixated on that comforting sight. Even as the other Healers arrived to prepare Draco for transport, even as they pushed Harry out of the way. Even as Ron took his arm to help him apparate to the hospital, Harry strained to remember the subtle motion of Draco’s breathing. Up and down, up and down, proof of life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left! FINALLY. It's fairly straightforward though, so it won't take nearly as long to get posted.


	11. Let Me Keep Someone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If at some point in this you end up shaking your head and saying, "these boys!" well, you weren't the only one. =D Not gonna lie, my beta and I had rather different opinions on this chapter, mostly in that she likes it quite a bit more than I do. However, I've learned to trust her judgment when it comes to posting things (AKA otherwise I was going to end up killing off a major character out of the blatant need to punish this fic for being difficult--these are the moments when a good beta is priceless), so if you're in any way pleased with this ending, credit goes to her.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

Marrow had words for Harry. And the Unspeakables had questions about the chest, of course they did. Harry told them all that it wasn’t his problem anymore and that if they couldn’t figure it out without his help, they weren’t of much use.

Five, six.

The Ministry’s demands for a meeting became louder and more harried. Harry explained—tiredly, impatiently—that he could give a shit about their meeting and that he was exactly where he needed to be, their opinions on the matter be damned.

Seven meant a week.

The threats of discharge were replaced by threats of arrest. Harry told them to fuck off. He told them that if they wanted to arrest the Savior of the Wizarding World for refusing to leave the hospital, they could fucking do it. He told them they would have a fucking duel on their hands, but by that point, he would’ve welcomed the outlet. The clamor died down a little at that point, at least until he got a notice for a professional conduct hearing. He shrugged it off. Let a solicitor figure it out.

Eight, nine.

Hermione got him a solicitor. A Muggleborn witch with shark eyes and a smoking habit. Harry couldn’t seem to remember what she looked like from one visit to the next; she did have a bland sort of face, but he suspected he was just that tired.

Ten.

Through it all, Draco didn’t wake up. Harry helped the Mediwitches bathe him. He helped them turn him to prevent bedsores. He helped the physical therapist move his arms and legs in regular exercises to keep the muscles from atrophying. He learned the spells that resolved blood clots and removed fluid from the lungs, two things that were more likely to happen the longer Draco was immobile, just in case one of these things happened when Harry was the only one there.

Eleven.

Hermione crossed her arms and refused to say one way or the other, grim determination leaking from every pore, but according to the other healers, he wasn’t going to wake up. Harry took a swing at someone and only missed because Ron jumped in and took it on his shoulder. Ron shoved him against a wall, hard, and started talking in a low, emphatic voice. Harry didn’t catch it all, but there were phrases that stood out: “Certain realities” and “listen to your solicitor” and “you can’t help him from Azkaban.” And all the while, over Ron’s shoulder, the healers squawked with ruffled feathers, making sour noises under their collective breath, all of which amounted to _he won’t wake up._

Harry couldn’t stand to hear that, so he left.

Twelve.

He didn’t go back.

*

On day thirteen, he walked into the Ministry and went directly up to the Auror office, where he ignored the stares of the other Aurors in favor of banging on Marrow’s door. Marrow took one look at him and dragged him inside, his unibrow furrowed and his brown eyes torn between anger and concern.

“Well, you have gotten yourself into a bloody heap of shit,” Marrow said, clomping behind his desk to sit across from Harry. “Is there any reason it took nearly two weeks for this to get handled? Fuck, Harry, it could’ve been a much smaller thing.”

“It wasn’t my priority,” Harry said.

“I think that’s abundantly clear.” Marrow licked his lips and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry about Malfoy.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He stared at a small stain on the carpet, then rubbed at it with his toe.

“If that’s how you want it,” Marrow muttered. “Business then. I’ve reviewed Weasley’s memories and I’ve questioned him thoroughly. You’ll be touched and annoyed to note that he did not claim all of this was your fault.”

Harry sighed.

“Why didn’t you call me, Harry?”

“It wasn’t my priority,” Harry said again.

“I could’ve helped.”

“But would you have?”

Marrow kicked his desk. “Merlin, you have a hard head. You’re making it damn difficult for me to be on your side here. You realize, I hope, that this isn’t just about you getting fired anymore? You’re impeding an investigation. Angie Finnegan died in your kitchen.”

“I’m aware,” Harry said.

Hermione and Ron had explained about their fight with the Angie monster; how she—It?—had been resistant to Stunning Spells and had nearly eaten Ron’s face before Hermione was able to tackle her. Eventually they’d trapped her in a cage of Flitwick’s barrier spells, and they’d left her there, hissing and snapping, to run to Harry. By the time Ron had gone back, the monster inside her had died.

Hermione had theories, and had gone on for a while about hive minds and bees and ants and a bunch of stuff about how the offspring might not be able to live when the parent died, but Harry had gotten tired of listening then, so he wasn’t entirely sure that they’d come around to a decision on exactly what had happened.

All he knew was that he’d firecalled Angie and she’d died. Add that to the list of things burning a hole in his chest. No, he mused. Not a burn. It felt more like a knife stabbed deep. A knife made up of guilt and anger and all the ways that Harry kept letting people slip through his fingers.

“I’ll give you my memories,” he said, shaking himself back to the conversation. “I’ll answer whatever you want under Veritaserum.”

“How long until your solicitor gets here?”

“I…” Harry couldn’t remember her name all of a sudden. “I don’t need one.”

“Harry, for the love of…” Marrow rubbed a hand along his face. “Firecall your fucking solicitor. Now.”

Harry got up and went to the office floo, where he spent ten minutes tracking down Hermione so he could get the name and contact information of the shark-eyed woman. Then he went to his own office and sat down at his desk to wait. There were files on the surface, files from cases he barely recalled, cases that had seemed important at one time. He opened the drawer, pawed through scraps of parchment and assorted mess until he found his favorite quill, the Eagle quill that Draco had gotten him as a stocking stuffer for Christmas a year ago. He studied the point, stained dark with ink, and didn’t move until someone cleared his throat.

Well, her throat. Simmons. He hadn’t even heard her come in.

“Potter? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m…I’m proving I’m not a killer, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully.

She snorted. “How’s Malfoy?”

Harry looked away.

“Ah,” she said, more quietly. “No change. Weasley was in. Explained some of it. You need anything? Someone mentioned getting a card, fat lot of good that’ll do you, but then, you probably don’t want any of this lot cooking you anything either.”

He looked up at her, a little confused as to what exactly she expected from him.

“Cards?” she asked again, more slowly.

“God, no,” Harry said, slamming the drawer and lurching to his feet. “No, I don’t…just forget it.”

Her shrewd eyes lingered on the scruff at his jaw and his t-shirt—one of the few he owned that had actual holes in it, an excellent choice for a professional meeting. Then she leaned in and sniffed him, making a bit of a face. “You’re a muddle, son.”

“I’ve been made aware,” he said.

“I’m sorry for your troubles. You don’t deserve this. Angie was a good girl and it’s a damn shame what happened to her, but you didn’t kill her.”

He blinked at her for a moment and wondered why those sincere words didn’t seem to ease the sharp, slicing guilt in his chest. “Thank you,” he said anyway.

“It gets better,” she said.

“Oh?” he asked. He could feel his face hardening. “Which part?”

She shrugged. “Any of it. All of it. Either the situation gets better or the grief does. But sooner or later, if you just put your head down and walk on long enough, it all gets better. Sometimes, knowing that nothing lasts forever can be a comfort.”

That, Harry decided, was utter horseshit. “Well, that’s good to know,” he said blandly.

Her lips pursed, but she didn’t comment on his tone; she merely nodded to something outside of his office door. “You’re being summoned.”

He was indeed. Shark woman was there, so he followed her and Marrow back into Marrow’s office, where introductions were made. Shark woman—Belinda, right—started off with an argument about extenuating circumstances and undue hardship and emotional duress and that was the point where Harry tuned the whole thing out.

Sooner or later someone would put a potion or a pensieve in front of him, and he’d go from there.

*

On day fifteen, he remained silent as Marrow and several key members of the Wizengamot viewed his memories in an official Ministry pensieve. He submitted to over a dozen hours of questioning under Veritaserum. He let them search the cottage once, twice, three times.

He spent six hours clearing up the first time, horrified at the mess, knowing exactly what Draco would say if he came home to papers misfiled, kitchen a wreck, his potions ingredients strewn about. The second time, four days later, Harry set Goober to the task, ignoring the elf’s confusion and hand-wringing at the order. Harry sat on the stairs and listened to him cry and sweep at the same time, and wished he could think of something to say that would soften the bug-eyed little thing’s unhappiness, but he was out of lies. After the third search, a week later, Harry ordered Goober to leave the disorder the fuck alone because it didn’t matter anyway.

He got a dirty look for that one. He wasn’t particularly bothered by that.

On the sixteenth day without Draco, Harry went to the Forbidden Forest. He wandered among the trees, boots clomping on snow, listening to the snap of twigs and leaves beneath his feet, feeling the icy weather in his veins. By the time he got to the sinkhole, where Flitwick’s blue barrier spell still blocked off the yawning mouth in the ground, his fingers were numb. He couldn’t feel his nose. He probably should’ve brought a cloak.

He stared down at the barrier; he couldn’t see past it to the bottom, all those feet below, where Draco had landed. Where the Creature had pried inside, hitched a ride, taken something that wasn’t Its to take.

It grasped, the literature said. They’d kept reading, looking for a hint, a cure. Draco’s hospital room filled to bursting with books in every language, Ron and Hermione showing up in the evenings to help read. Found next to nothing. Vague references. Nothing that Harry could use to twist the knife of guilt in his chest. No excuse to say _we should’ve done that._ They’d used their best option. And the one thing that all the reading came back to was that Creatures grasped.

Harry thought that a rather polite word. He preferred _violated._

*

He came home to a notice that he’d been suspended without pay pending the results of a pre-trial inquest to see if he could be considered negligent in Angie’s death; his professional conduct hearing was pushed back, as there would be no need for it at all if he ended up in Azkaban. Felons couldn’t be Aurors anyway. He supposed he should feel something about that news, but when he searched for some kind of emotion, he came up short. Numb, actually. Like he was still outside in the cold despite the blazing fire.

Hermione came over, her eyes flashing dangerously, and read him the riot act for not coming back to the hospital. She harangued him about answering his solicitor’s questions and the importance of taking this seriously. He listened without replying until she ran down, eyes nervous, chest heaving with indignation and passion, and then he wordlessly pushed her resistant form over the threshold and onto the porch, ignoring the way she started protesting again, her words becoming more and more shrill as they went.

Ron stopped by the next afternoon, and with tentative hands, offered one of Molly’s casseroles. They each had a bowl in silence before he escorted Ron out too, albeit rather more kindly, as Ron was clearly expecting it and seemed happy enough to go now that Harry had been fed and watered.

Goober had taken up knitting and made it into the most passive-aggressive hobby ever. The clacking of the needles was more hostile than the gnashing of teeth or the sound of blades being sharpened. After that one disastrous attempt in the kitchen, Harry was refusing to let Goober clean again, this time out of some sort of rebellious fuck you to the universe that he didn’t examine too closely. The problem was that Harry wasn’t cleaning either, which left them both in a cottage of developing filth, something which Goober seemed to find intensely offensive on his master’s behalf. Harry kept finding the elf's bizarre little projects tucked away in inconvenient places—a tissue box cozy in one of Harry’s shoes, something that might have been a dog leash knotted around the shower head, a single baby’s sock resting on his face when he woke up in the morning.

Sometimes Harry made Goober watch telly with him and they would sit together on the sofa in mildly resentful silence. Harry would fall asleep on the sofa around four in the morning, and the next day, he could never remember what program had been on. He didn’t bother asking, either.

*

On day nineteen, Harry was in his nicest robes and sitting beside shark woman (still couldn’t remember her name) in one of the courtrooms, waiting for the start of his hearing. There were reporters here from several different papers. The Prophet had, interestingly enough, sent someone besides Rita Skeeter, an older, heavy man writing with a regular quill. Normally, this news would be met with happiness from Harry—before this whole thing with the Creature, if Skeeter had fallen into a frozen lake and lost all her fingers, he’d have considered it proof of the existence of Karma and perhaps even cheered about it—but he couldn’t really concentrate on that.

The focus of the day was Angie. _That_ twisted the knife of guilt in Harry’s chest just fine. Her family was there—parents, siblings, cousins. Seamus. All sitting on benches across the courtroom, all of them with gazes that flickered to him frequently as they listened to the esteemed whoever-it-was leading the whole damn thing.

Hermione and Ron testified under Veritaserum. They showed their memories of Angie to the Wizengamot, followed by their perspectives of the moment when the Creature was yanked out of Draco’s body and burned. Harry was asked questions as well, also under Veritaserum, and he gave them the memories of his conversations with Angie’s house elf and his subsequent casting of the Patronus, but he didn’t see how any of this would help.

He was plainly guilty. He’d firecalled her, he reminded himself, and she’d died.

After the entire story was presented, Angie’s mother—dry-eyed, pale, blazing with grief and anger—stood up, interrupting the member currently speaking.

“This is why I came here today? To see memories of firecalls and the monster that wore my daughter’s face? The thing that killed my Angie is dead,” she said, satisfaction hard and rioting in her voice. “The rest of this is just looking for someone to blame.”

She looked at Harry. “You could have been more careful. But you’re not the one who hurt her.” She got up and led her children out, not caring to stay for the verdict. She did not look at Harry again. Harry turned away, feeling sick.

“That’s a lucky thing, having the mother support you like that,” shark woman said in a hoarse, brassy voice, leaning in next to him and reeking of tobacco.

They dropped the charges.

*

There were other hearings, inquests about the Creature and whether or not there could be any guilt on Draco’s behalf, but Harry could tell, just from the way his own had gone, that Marrow had gotten them thinking that Draco was a victim as much as Angie was.

It probably helped his argument that they’d seen Hermione and Madame Pomfrey’s memories of Draco’s fall and subsequent, mysterious medical crisis in the Hogwarts hospital wing. They also watched Hermione pull the viperous thing directly out of the spot at the base of his skull—rather sterling evidence that Draco had been possessed. So Harry didn’t worry too much about it, and it wasn’t until Marrow firecalled him with the news that they wouldn’t be listing Draco as a potential perpetrator that he realized he should have been concerned. He should’ve been wondering what would happen when Draco woke up.

But then, that would require faith that Draco _would_ wake up. And by that time, Harry was fresh out.

Three days later, the professional hearing rolled around. This was attended only by Harry, Marrow and the three Wizengamot members responsible for the administration of the Auror office—Marrow’s bosses, in effect. They’d all been present at the inquest, and they all knew as much as anyone could know about the whole mess. They asked Harry a few questions— _are you sorry you didn’t follow procedure_ and _do you now understand the process surrounding conflicts of interest_ and _would you do it differently if you had another chance._

His answers blurred together in his mind, but they must have been reasonably contrite, because the Wizengamot didn’t fire him. Instead, they demoted him, giving him a drastic pay cut. He would have to undergo retraining and psychological testing before he could return, and before he could start that he would have to take a six-week unpaid suspension. And he was lucky, he was told, that he had such a first-rate record before now and a supervisor who had fought hard for him, or he’d be out on his ear.

Thank you, Harry said. I won’t let you down, he said.

He was ninety percent sure he wasn’t going back.

He paused to talk to Hermione, who was waiting worriedly for him at the exit.

“I can’t,” he explained before she even opened her mouth. “I’m tired.”

Her shoulders sagged and she nodded resignedly, and Harry went home.

Where he got spectacularly drunk.

*

Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

*

He sobered up enough to attend Angie’s funeral once the Unspeakables finished analyzing her body, even though he wasn’t sure it was the most respectful thing to do as far as her family was concerned. He sat in the back, and the knife in his chest twisted and twisted.

 _Sorry,_ he thought. _Sorry._

When he got home, Hermione and Ron followed him inside. They refused to leave, talking and talking, and finally he just went upstairs, warded the door to his bedroom, and went to sleep. He could still sort of hear them, but…

Oh, well. He'd gotten pretty good at tuning them out lately, anyway.

*

While making breakfast on day twenty-seven, he broke the half-full jar of Draco’s favorite jam. He was reaching for teabags and bumped the sugar bowl, knocking the jar to the floor where it shattered and splattered Marionberry gunk everywhere. Harry looked down at his coated denims, at the spray across the cabinets, and thought, _I better clean this up before Draco gets home or he’ll kill me._ Then he realized what he’d thought, the impossibility of it, and went upstairs. He put on Draco’s gray sweater—he’d been wearing it off and on for a while now—as it still smelled faintly like that damnable cologne. This was the sweater Draco often shrugged on over a collared shirt, the one apparently made of the most expensive and exclusive wool in the world. Harry had teased him, asking why Italian sheep were so much better dressed, and had earned a scathing rejoinder that had amounted to _you are a bloody moron. I don’t know why I let you put your cock in my arse._

He didn’t want to get the mess on the bed, so he climbed into the bathtub instead. He listened to the water dripping—something he’d told Draco he would fix but had never gotten around to, not unlike the loose shingle that still thwapped on the roof on windy days—and stared at the small puddle of water at the drain between his toes.

That was where Hermione and Ron found him. Ron perched on the toilet, his hand gripping Harry’s. Hermione climbed in with him, right between his legs, and put her face against his so that his tears caught in her hair. He hadn’t even heard them arrive, he’d been sobbing that loudly. It hurt, crying so hard. His abdomen ached, his throat was on fire, his head pounded. Hermione was crying too, he could tell. Her slim shoulders shook. He didn’t think Ron was, but the hand on his was calloused and strong.

Harry could admit, at least to himself, that part of the reason he was so determined to stay away from Draco’s room was that he was not an optimistic person by nature. At least, not anymore.

Maybe once he had been. The day he’d gotten his Hogwarts letter, it was like the world unfurled before him, alight with possibility, every distant point suddenly accessible. Nothing was beyond his reach. Then he’d met Hermione and Ron, and something else had opened. He’d begun to see the possibilities of people too, of having them and knowing them and letting them know him.

It had seemed like it would last forever, that sense of potential. That all good things could happen.

He’d lost that along the way.

On some level, when the days had continued to roll by with no change, he’d been sure that fate would take Draco from him. Why wouldn’t it? It had taken so many others, after all. His parents. Sirius. Dumbledore. Snape. Lupin. Fred. If there were still people in his life, that bitter little part of him whispered, it was only because fate hadn’t gotten around to them yet. At some point, he figured, he’d stopped believing in happy endings.

He’d decided he couldn’t wait anymore to watch someone else he loved die. It had happened too many times already, and this was worse, far worse, because it was Draco. He’d watched Draco in the Hogwarts hospital bed after the fall, he’d watched Draco bleeding and screaming in the dirt in that frigid field outside of Nailsworth.

But if the goal of leaving the hospital had been to minimize how badly this fucking _hurt,_ it wasn’t working.

He let them put him to bed after a while. Ron helped him out of his denims and covered him up. He fell asleep to the sounds of them downstairs, their voices a low hum, the clink of broken glass as they cleaned up the mess.

He woke up in the middle of the night; Hermione was pressed against him on one side, warm and curvy and smelling of shampoo and clean sweat, while Ron was sprawled on the floor, snoring lightly. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

That was how day twenty-seven became day twenty-eight.

*

He started going back to the hospital after that. Once a day at least, usually in the evenings. Sometimes he’d go in the morning too. Draco never moved; he could’ve been carved out of stone. Sometimes Harry would close the door to Draco’s room and sneak onto the bed beside him, putting his ear square in the center of Draco’s chest. He would listen to the reverberations of his heartbeat, steady but indifferent.

He got back in the swing of things, the Mediwitches accepting his help with professionally kind smiles: turning Draco, working his muscles, occasionally casting a spell to keep the fluid out of his lungs if the charm set on his breathing called for it. Hermione continued to read and check in daily. Ron started dropping little bits of gossip from work.

Harry went to dinner at the Burrow. He let Mrs. Weasley fold him up in her arms and promise food and hugs and a certainty that Harry would be okay.

They all seemed to think he was getting better, he realized. The outburst in the bathtub; going back to the hospital; having dinner out; all of these things made them think that he was dealing with his pain. That he was coming to grips with a Draco-less world and would grieve, move on and eventually find love elsewhere.

The realization shook him.

He went back to see Draco afterwards, when the night was cold and full of stars, just as it had been during the battle in the field. He stood in Draco’s room and stared out the window.

“They think this whole thing is me getting better,” he murmured to Draco, who lay still and silent in the bed. Same as always. “They think I’m making sense of it.”

He put his fingers on the glass and watched as the frost on the other side slowly began to succumb to his body heat.

“They don’t understand,” he said. “They think I’m going to leave you behind. Let you stay in here and rot, alone. But I figured something out in that bathtub when I had my little breakdown. I don’t know how to be the one who leaves. It’s always other people leaving me. I don’t get to keep anyone.”

He dropped his hand and went back to his chair, slumping down and taking Draco’s slender wrist in his palm, smiling faintly at the delicacy of the bones.

“If this ends with one of us leaving,” he whispered, “It’s going to have to be you.” He squeezed gently, stroking his thumb along warm, resilient flesh. “But it would have been really something to get to keep someone.”

*

On day thirty-six, several minutes after Hermione's daily visit and assorted treatments, Draco moved. No one else was there to see it. And it did not happen again.

At least, not until day thirty-seven.

And that time, Harry _was_ there to see it.

*

“I’m telling you he moved,” Harry said to one of the lime-green-wearing people who looked like popsicles in their stupid robes, all of whom were interchangeable, none of whom listened, despite the fact that Harry’s eyes did actually function, glasses or not. There was a scene. There was yelling. Harry was nearly asked to leave the hospital. Ron pulled him away, literally dragging him down the hall and shoving him into a bathroom where Harry raged until his temper cooled. He finally sank down against the wall, out of breath and drained, and listened to Ron guarding the door, explaining that a troll had got in, yes, that was the source of the noise, yes, maintenance was on top of it, best to use the loo downstairs, thank you.

He hadn’t imagined it, he told himself. This wasn’t—as that twat Healer Jobbs had said—Harry’s grief and hope manifesting in hallucinations. Maybe it was true that Harry wanted Draco to wake up so badly that at times he almost couldn’t breathe to think of what it would be like. But that didn’t mean that Harry was fooling himself. He wasn’t an optimist, he told himself. All imaginings aside, he hadn’t imagined that finger twitch.

Unlike her colleagues, Hermione believed Harry, even if it took her a few minutes to get on board. He could almost hear her wondering, at first, if he was so heartbroken that he’d made it up as some sort of mental coping skill, but she didn’t argue, because he suspected that she had a knife of guilt of her own and the possibility of Draco’s movement eased it. But then she said, “I tried something new. It was just a lark. I didn't really think...”

“What was it?” Harry asked, seizing her arm.

“I cast a charm for mental rejuvenation,” she said. “It’s so stupid, Harry, because he’s in a coma, and there’s no reason for his mind to need awakening when it’s his body that’s causing the problems, but I thought maybe he was just…tired _mentally_ …and it wasn't like it could hurt if I was wrong...”

“Do it again,” he demanded.

She began to pace, knotting her fingers together. “I don’t even know if—”

He turned her around, gently but firmly, and then gave her a not-so-gentle shove in the direction of the bed.

“Do it again.”

So she did, and they stood there as the moments crept by and Harry watched Draco's still form with his breath locked tight in his chest, and nothing happened.

“ _Again.”_

“I can’t. The therapeutic dose is twice daily. Tomorrow, Harry, okay?” She headed for the door, but not before he saw the tears filling her eyes.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said. “I made the call to use the spell in that field.”

She nodded once, smiled sadly, and hurried out.

And Harry went back to what he’d been doing for the first two weeks of Draco’s coma, before he’d abandoned the hospital for his breakdown. He sat in the chair at Draco’s side, staring at him obsessively, saying stupid nonsense things about how it would all be all right if only Draco would open his eyes. Complete crap, really, but he didn’t have anything better.

He had Goober bring him clothes. He used the hospital room’s shower. He ate hospital breakfasts. On one particularly odd day, he watched Narcissa Malfoy walk stiffly through the door to visit her son. She was on her own two feet, the shaved part of her head now partially grown in and fuzzy as duck down. Her nose and jaw were misshapen and there were several visible scars, but she’d found her cool somewhere along the way, and she seemed frighteningly regal in her dressing gown.

Harry had visited her once before to explain everything, but beyond that he hadn’t known what to say, and she’d been just as uncomfortable, so he hadn’t gone back. He’d simply asked one of the staff to keep her updated and washed his hands of the responsibility. As he watched her card her fingers through Draco’s pale hair, he felt a little like he’d dropped something fragile.

Stubbornly, defiantly, he told her that Draco had moved. She paused, took a breath, and nodded once. After about half an hour of surprisingly comfortable silence, she went back to her room.

Several more times, Harry cornered Hermione and forced her to do the spell; each time they waited for up to ten minutes afterward, staring with decreasing eagerness as nothing happened.

Harry began to think he’d imagined it after all. Hermione seemed reluctant to agree, but it was clear on her face.

*

Except then Draco moved. Hermione wasn’t there to see it.

But Ron was.

He’d brought Harry some supper courtesy of Mrs. Weasley. Most of the Weasleys had visited at least a few times, back in the beginning, but Mrs. Weasley hadn’t given up. She kept sending desserts and hot chocolate and sometimes he suspected that she and Goober were conspiring via floo when he wasn’t home, because a couple of times he’d find himself eating something from one of them that tasted suspiciously like something the other usually made.

At any rate, Ron saw the jerk of Draco’s head, the sudden flutter of his long fingers.

And Harry took great pleasure in informing the popsicle people that they were wrong. There was another scene. There was more yelling. Harry was nearly asked to leave the hospital again. Ron had to pull him away, but he was laughing as he did.

It was wonderful.

*

Everything was _fucking_ work.

Draco could not _believe_ how much damn effort it took to open his eyes. He couldn’t think of why it should be so hard, and he cast about slowly, struggling to remember why he’d decided to take a nap that had apparently left him half-corpse. It took a while to come up with anything. He had a memory of Harry sleeping in a field, looking young and handsome and pure, like a knight from a story. All that was missing was the sword.

Well, and the dragon.

Eventually he caved and the black took him again.

*

The healers were in and out constantly once more. Hermione checked in several times over the course of her shifts and cast the spell every time. The little movements and twitches came again and again; twice a day, then three, four, five times a day. His eyelashes would flicker. His breathing would pause or speed.

Harry talked to him constantly. He talked about the shitty hospital food and the hearings he’d had to sit through and the fact that he’d been suspended. He bitched about the weather and explained that there were people in the world in need of the potions Draco should be brewing and he talked about all the reasons he’d been afraid to be in the hospital for those weeks when he’d gone and how sorry he was that he’d underestimated Draco’s strength.

“I should’ve known you’d find a way,” he said, shaking his head. “Stubborn bastard. I could make a comment here about this whole thing taking long enough, but really, that seems a little petty at this point.” He felt his lips twitch and fought not to get ahead of himself. It wasn’t too late for this to be snatched away from him.

 _Please,_ he prayed, although not to anyone specific. Just to the world at large, and all the possible hope available within it. _Please, let me keep someone._

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, love,” Harry whispered. “I’ll wait.”

*

When Draco opened his eyes, it took him a moment to realize that the white thing overhead was a ceiling.

 _Well,_ he thought, _at least I’m not in that damn field anymore._

Which was how he realized he remembered the fall. And the Creature. And his mother. And the fight in the darkness, Harry dying…Harry…

“Draco?”

 _Yes_ , Draco thought, _I know. I’m already thinking about Harry, thank you. Stop interrupting._

“Can you hear me?”

Harry’s face came into view and for a long minute, all Draco could do was look at him. Intent gaze, worried and determined and so very warm. Square jaw. Stupid hair. Soft, pretty mouth. So handsome, so strong, so _alive._ Which was impossible because Harry had died.

And now that he thought about it, he sort of remembered hearing Harry during that hellish struggle in the field. After the whole dying thing, which was, frankly, a bit mystifying.

“Can you hear me, love?” Harry asked again.

_Of course I can fucking hear you. My ears aren’t broken, are they?_

“You’re in St. Mungo’s. The Creature’s dead,” Harry said, apparently deciding that if he wasn’t going to get an answer he might as well answer the obvious questions just in case Draco could understand words anyway. “You should be alone in there. Can you give us a sign?”

The Creature was dead?

Draco searched wildly for the presence of that other voice in his mind. The pressure was gone, he realized. The weight was gone. The only words and images in his head were his own. And his eyes were latched onto Harry, but they were moving nonetheless, coasting over those familiar features. Which meant he had control.

It took him a little while; he’d nearly forgotten how to talk.

“Potter,” he garbled, and tried to reach out with his hand. He nearly smacked Harry in the face, but Harry was so busy whooping that Draco supposed he didn’t really mind.

Weasley was there from nowhere, hugging Harry, which was obnoxious because Draco should really be the center of attention at the moment, and it was nice and all that they were happy he wasn’t dead, but come _on._ Then Weasley was gone, shouting something about Granger, and Harry was leaning his cheek gingerly against Draco’s.

 _Finally._ Something he could approve of. He made a sound, one that was meant to be encouraging but came out rather rough.

“Am I hurting you?” Harry asked, freezing and looking mildly horrified.

Shaking his head was beyond him; he managed to make a noise of dissent and Harry relaxed.

He buried his face in Draco’s neck, crying, no doubt, the big sap, and Draco took his first real deep breath since the fall. Harry smelled like sweat and old t-shirts and grimy hair and hospital food and _Harry_ and Draco managed, “You stink,” even as he tried to figure out how to get his arm up to hold Harry close. He was weak as a fucking baby, but his arm was his arm again, and it moved when he told it to—sloppy and heavy and sort of embarrassingly out of control—but it moved.

“How long?” Draco asked, thinking about it. If he’d been out for twenty-four hours the time he’d held the divide up for fifteen minutes, then he could only imagine how long it had been this time. Considering what he’d had to do to hold on when the Creature was yanked out.

Harry exhaled hard against his throat. “Over a month.”

Draco blinked while that sank in. It seemed an impossible amount of time; so large as to be fake and almost humorous. But here was Harry, skinny as fuck and smelly and looking five years older, pasty and sort of pathetically wrapped around him, so clearly a month it had been.

Part of him wanted to complain about losing so much time, but the rest of him was so fucking tired that it just seemed like too much work.

“Every time open divide,” he explained, forcing his tongue to do what he wanted, even if Harry stood upright and looked perplexed by this comment. “Sorry scared you. I get tired…what? Why look like that? Don’t.”

“Why? How am I looking at you?” Harry asked, his eyes wide and hopeful and running over every inch of Draco’s face as if he wanted a perfect memory of this. Frankly, Draco could do without staying in this moment, as he felt stupid as hell cutting out every other word, and he was pretty sure he was drooling. And the expression really wasn’t doing much for Harry’s handsomeness.

“You look like toad,” Draco explained.

Harry broke out in a blinding grin. “Fuck, I missed you. You did scare me, you little shit. You don’t even…there aren’t even words, Draco, for how much you…and you owe me. You owe me so fucking huge. That’s twice now that you’ve almost died on me, and I’m done. It’s not happening again. I’ll hang myself first, I swear to Merlin.”

But Draco was already fading. The toad comment had taken the last of his strength, and he figured if he was going to pass out, doing it immediately after an insult was the way to do it.

His eyes slipped closed and he felt Harry’s lips against his cheek. “Sleep, love,” he murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

*

Draco’s mouth might not work so well, and he was far more likely to hit something than grasp it just now, but his mind was crystal clear; it did not take him long to realize that he’d missed a busy month.

And it had been exactly two days since he’d opened his eyes, which really amounted to about 18 minutes of actual conscious time, although that was more than enough to cotton on to the fact that everyone was keeping shit from him. Like he was delicate. Or, he realized, anxious.

“I’m fine,” he garbled one morning to Harry, who was combing Draco’s hair in exactly the haphazard manner one would expect from a man who basically wore a mop on his head. “I do self.”

“Sure,” Harry said comfortingly, then just went about his business, because they both knew there was no way Draco’s hand was getting up there with the kind of control necessary for this.

“You bad this,” Draco said, and sniffed. “I do lots.”

“Of course you do,” Harry said, smiling. “No one else tells me my failings like you can.”

Draco would’ve sneered if he was sure he could get his lip back down. _Look at that, mother,_ he thought, vaguely amused. _Your face really can get stuck that way._

“So tell bad,” Draco managed.

“Tell bad? What do you mean?”

“You don’t talk,” Draco said, slowly and carefully. “Bad things.”

“There’s nothing bad to talk about. You’re awake now. Everything’s perfect.” Harry’s eyes were on his hands. “Really.”

Draco swallowed. “An--Anchie.” Gods, when would his mouth get it together?

Harry paused, the teeth of the comb in Draco’s hair coming to rest heavily on his scalp.

“She dead. Killed her.”

“It’s not your fault,” Harry said fiercely. “It isn’t, so don’t you even think it. You didn’t do a fucking thing wrong, Draco. It is not your fault.”

“I know,” Draco said, although he wasn’t sure how true that was. He studied Harry, his Harry, who was so utterly normal in so many ways, except at moments like this, when he was blazing and intimidating and fearless on Draco’s behalf.

 _This is the man I love_ , he thought, trying it on for size now that he was fully conscious. It sounded weird, not really Draco’s style, but there was a sweet undertone that warmed him. It seemed an odd thing all of a sudden, to love someone. To have a fully autonomous person be as crucial to your existence as your own organs was just peculiar when you thought about it.

“Why didn’t tell?” Draco asked.

Harry shifted on the bed and sat up, taking the comb out of Draco’s hair entirely. “You’ve got a lot to deal with,” he said finally. “I didn’t want to add to it.”

“I’m okay,” Draco said, rather clearly, which he took as a sign that it was meant to be said. “Potter. I’m okay.”

“I know,” Harry said, his gaze flinching away slightly. He lifted the comb once more and Draco made an angry noise, causing his hand to still.

“My angs---anx—my nervous good,” Draco managed finally, telling the truth. His anxiety had not been all that bad since wakening; knowing that he hadn’t caved to the Creature’s threats, even to save Harry, had done wonders for his ability to trust himself. If he keep his decency even while possessed and thinking Harry was about to die, a trip to a restaurant—or a conversation about a dead friend—would not break him. “Not scared. Did right.”

Harry’s brow creased. “Of course you did it right. You’re…Draco, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh, fuck it,” Draco said, and the words were too garbled for Harry to understand because Draco had been too annoyed to take the time to say them clearly. Harry didn’t understand, and he wasn’t going to as long as Draco was being forced to communicate complicated ideas like a damn toddler.

Better to wait.

Granger saved them from awkwardness then, bustling in with a big grin and those nightmarish robes that made all of the healers look faintly sea-sick. Horrid for the complexion, blinding to the ill. What the hell had St. Mungo’s been thinking?

All the same, Draco was glad to see her. She was entirely willing to side with Draco against Harry when Draco was in the right, and she was far more capable of arguing on his behalf just now. “Granch,” he said (G’s were really hard still). “Make Potter tell bad story.”

She peered at him for a second, clearly deciphering his stumbling words. “You want to know everything, even the bad parts?”

Draco sort-of flop-nodded.

“You can’t have an anxiety potion,” she warned him. “It’ll interact with several of the others you’re taking.”

“Not angs…nervous.”

“Okay. If you need to take a break, just say so.” She aimed her smile at Harry, who was eyeing her with no small amount of annoyance. “If he says he’s fine, he’s fine. After everything he’s been through, Harry, I think the answers to some unpleasant questions might be less stressful than his active imagination might be.”

Harry clearly hadn’t considered this, and when he flushed, Draco knew he was thinking that not knowing the answers would’ve driven him absolutely nuts, and here he was, doing it to Draco. So he let Hermione check Draco over, and then they all sat down and Harry explained everything that had happened from his side, all the way back since the day of the fall.

Draco lay there, listening as Harry detailed the basic bones of everything that had happened. He didn’t mention his fear or worry. He didn’t have to; it was there in the tense set of his shoulders and the fact that his eyes hovered on Draco’s face. It was in the way his hand lingered on Draco’s the whole time, sometimes tightening until their knuckles whitened, as if he needed reminding that the Creature had died and Draco had not.

Draco was tempted to say the words then. But they weren’t alone and Harry looked like he was barely getting through the telling of the whole thing, and besides, Draco didn’t fancy the first time he said _I love you_ to be full of slurring and drool. Plus, around that point, Harry seemed to realize he was squeezing hard enough that he might be hurting Draco and he casually separated their hands to put his in his lap.

When they got to the part about Granger sneaking the spell at him that helped rejuvenate his mind, Draco thought _Granger, you silly bint, I’d give you the kiss of your life if you didn’t have tits. And if I could move. And if your boyfriend hadn’t already been there. I’m not getting Weasley germs. But fuck, you’re invaluable._

He said, “Clever.”

By the time they were done, Draco was exhausted and on the verge of sleep. Hermione reminded him, one last time, to talk and move as much as possible to get his mouth and motor skills back up to scratch, and then headed home for the night.

After disappearing to brush his teeth and get in pajamas in the bathroom, Harry came back and transfigured the small hospital sofa into a bed before coming to help Draco with a tooth-cleaning charm. He straightened the blanket, smoothed Draco’s hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Draco meant to ask why Harry didn’t just crowd in next to him, because after everything they’d talked about and been through, the idea of lying in Harry’s arms frankly sounded wonderful, but before he got a chance, he’d drifted off.

*

The next day was bath day; it would be Draco’s first since he was conscious and capable enough to actually get out of the bed and have contact with more than a wet sponge, and he was very much looking forward to it. This invalid shit was exhausting and degrading.

He wasn’t exactly sure why at first, but the presence of the Mediwitch threw him. And then it hit him: he'd assumed that Harry would be the one to help him.

Harry sat on his little couch, watching with an air of mostly-hidden disquiet, as the older woman bustled around getting towels and soap together so she could help him to the bathroom and keep him steady throughout the process. Harry’s eyes followed the woman’s grip, and as she helped him ease his feet off the mattress—strong woman, shoulders like a bull—and his hands formed fists where they rested on his knees.

“What?” Draco asked him, thinking that perhaps Harry had expected to be the one to help as well. Perhaps Harry's frustration with the whole thing meant that he would shove the Mediwitch out of the way and wash Draco's hair for him like something out of a Muggle romance for the telly.

“Nothing,” Harry said. The fists relaxed.

The woman was good enough, Draco decided, thinking that this was an entirely stupid thing to be disappointed about. She clearly knew what she was about—Draco wasn’t frightened that she would let him fall or anything, despite the way she froze for a minute when her eyes fell on his Dark Mark, revealed by the hospital gown. Draco gave her the empty smile he’d perfected just for moments like this, where he had to pretend to be normal and open and non-threatening.

Robot Malfoy, Harry had called it a few times, and while Draco hadn’t understood it at first, he’d seen enough telly by the end of their first year together that he knew what it meant now. He hadn’t bothered getting heated about it though, because he supposed it was true. Harry still didn’t quite understand the reality of the world an ex-Death Eater lived in, however, so what Harry scorned, Draco clung to. Proof lay in her thinning lips and her flickering gaze, proof that Robot Malfoy would always be necessary. That would never change, not if he wanted to keep the life he had.

Draco might have learned a few things about his own trustworthiness, but the rest of the world likely never would. It was only Harry that had truly bothered to love him despite everything he’d done, everything he was. It was only with Harry he could be himself.

So he let the woman help him up, and ignored the way she tried to deftly ease to his right so she wouldn’t have to touch his branded arm. He couldn’t ignore the way Harry’s hands formed fists again.

 _If it bothers you so much, why don’t you just help me yourself?_ Draco wanted to ask, but his mouth wasn’t up to scratch on something that long yet, and it would be rude, besides. It wasn’t like he hadn’t earned this sort of treatment.

He stumbled a few times, but the woman caught him each time, and she smiled warmly at Harry when he jumped to his feet as if to rush over and help. “We’ve got it,” she said. “Balance is a mite wobbly, I'd wager.”

Draco gave a jerky nod, even as his left leg began to twitch.

“I can put a feather-weight charm on you when you get tired,” she offered, not quite meeting his gaze. “The movement is good for your muscles and nerves, but we don’t want to push too hard. Let me know.”

“Thank you,” Draco managed, although it came out rather garbled seeing as his attention was mainly on not falling over.

Once in the bathroom, she maneuvered him onto the brown tile in the corner where the spigot and drain were located. There wasn’t a tub, but there was plenty of room for seating and bars on the walls that he could hold onto, assuming he would ever have the strength. She put him on a conjured stool and leaned him against the wall before casting a warming charm on him. That was nice, he decided. It took all of his concentration and effort to stay upright as she ran the flannel and soap along his limbs and torso, but at least his teeth weren’t chattering.

It could have been more awkward, he supposed, but not by much. She was resolutely avoiding his eyes and her fingers jittered when she washed his left forearm, and there was an elephant the size of a Dark Lord hovering in the corner of the bathroom, but she didn’t seem to have any desire to bring it up, and he wouldn’t even if he could, so they silently agreed to pretend she wasn’t utterly disgusted by him.

“I can help you with your private regions if that’s easiest.” she said, her voice suitably professional. “Or I can keep you steady and you can try to do it yourself if you’d prefer.”

Draco hesitated; he didn’t want a stranger’s hands on his cock—it was bad enough sitting here naked and exposed—but his energy was virtually tapped and he really wasn’t sure if it would be any more dignified to hit himself in the bollocks because he couldn’t control his hand.

“I can help him with that,” Harry said, and Draco realized he’d been outside the whole time, listening in case he was needed, noting Draco’s hesitation.

The Mediwitch looked to Draco for confirmation and he said, “Okay.”

“Pull the cord when you’re ready—it’s charmed to alert me,” she said, and headed out of the bathroom and off to do whatever else she did when she wasn’t giving baths.

“Bitch,” Harry said in a quiet voice.

Draco rolled his head against the wall, inciting a riot of cold water droplets to sprinkle onto his shoulders. “She fine,” he said.

“She would barely look at you.”

“It’s okay. Used to it.”

Then Harry was there, his hands warm and capable as he made sure Draco was steady on the stool before he used his wand to dry the floor so he could kneel. Gently, he cupped Draco’s knees and eased his thighs wider so he could move in between them, an act that left Draco surprisingly breathless. Harry took up the flannel, using a little water from the tap and the bar of soap to create extra lather, and began on Draco’s upper thighs. The fabric was a little rough, and Draco jolted a bit when it came into contact with the tender skin at the crease where his thigh met his groin. Harry hesitated before he set the flannel aside.

Draco tipped his head back as Harry reached down, soapy fingers almost impersonal as he wrapped them around Draco’s cock. He washed the shaft before easing the foreskin back, working his thumb around the head. Draco inhaled sharply, somehow not remotely worried that he might fall any more. All of his attention was on the liquid heat pooling in his belly, on the way Harry touched him so carefully, so soothingly.

Those hands fell lower, cupping and stroking Draco’s sac, soap smoothing the way, and Draco found it interesting that he could barely move his arm without accidentally slapping something, but his cock didn’t seem to have any problem doing what it was supposed to.

Harry neither rushed nor lingered, and he ignored Draco’s erection entirely, thorough enough to get him clean but not encouraging anything. Didn’t really matter in the end. This was Harry, and Draco was virtually conditioned, at this point, to associate Harry’s touch with insane pleasure. There had been moments in the past when it took far less—only the ghost of Harry’s breath on his skin as he stood behind Draco in the pantry, say—to get him going. It would have been far more surprising, in Draco’s mind, if this _hadn’t_ gotten him hard.

Harry stood and bent over Draco, tugging him forward so that Draco ended up leaning against him, face at Harry’s throat, while Harry reached a still-soapy hand down behind him. Those fingers traced over Draco’s entrance, once, twice, no doubt trying for impersonal but accidentally teasing, and Draco moaned.

Harry went still.

For a moment, at least. Draco could feel Harry’s pulse speed up against his cheek, and then a single finger resumed rubbing. Entirely gentle, in easy circles, over and over, and Draco was incredibly hard now, wanting to arch, but all he could do was breathe faster and moan again. Harry’s finger hesitated for a split second, then caught on the rim of Draco’s hole before pushing, ever so slightly, inside. Draco felt his whole body go a little lax with the heat and the sensitivity and the tension, and he wished like hell that he could gather the necessary brain cells to say _deeper. More._

But Harry interpreted the laxness as weakness and abruptly eased away. Draco blinked and made a protesting noise, but Harry had already turned on the water and begun to rinse him. Draco could see his hardness in his denims and he nearly leaned down to put his mouth over Harry’s flies, never mind that he would probably fall and break his nose on the tile. Harry didn’t give him the chance. He merely leaned Draco back against the wall so he could run water over Draco’s cock—still very erect, and apparently entirely forgettable, judging from Harry’s manner.

“I’m okay,” Draco said.

“I know,” Harry said. He made the water a little cooler, and Draco could feel his erection beginning to wane, as much out of his frustration with the situation as the temperature.

“I can handle…”

“I know.”

Draco’s jaw muscles might have trouble with speaking, but they handled teeth-grinding fine. He sat in angry silence as Harry finished rinsing him and then they stood there, damp and awkward, while the last of Draco’s erection faded. Then Harry pulled the cord.

The Mediwitch came back, smiling professionally at no one in particular, and Draco pulled the scraps of his dignity—substantially dented by his nudity, weakness and apparent lack of attractiveness—into place so the woman could do her best to ignore him as she dried him off and helped him back to bed.

Once she was gone, Draco said, “Did I—”

“I’m going to track down Hermione,” Harry said. “There’s some things I need to cover with her.”

“Don’t comp-complain.”

“That Mediwitch was out of line.”

Draco sighed. “Don’t.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Potter. In shower—”

“I’ll be back,” Harry insisted, and then he was gone.

Okay, so they weren’t talking about it.

*

His mother came by that afternoon. Harry left to give them space, for which Draco was grateful, because the sobbing he broke into at the sight of her damaged beauty was really embarrassing. Particularly since he couldn’t wipe his own fucking face. But she used the fingers of the hand not in a splint to collect some tissues and rub them over his damp cheeks.

“Draco, don’t make a scene,” she murmured, then bent and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Mr. Potter explained everything, not that I didn’t already know.”

“Did you?”

“I knew it wasn’t you,” she said without hesitation. “Whatever else your father and I might have done when raising you, we never quite managed to make you cruel. Petty and mean, perhaps, but not cruel. I saw enough of that in the war to know you weren’t like the rest of them. It’s not in you.”

“Kicked Potter face once,” Draco said.

“Well, if ever there was a man who deserved it,” she said lightly.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“You are forgiven. Not that it is necessary. Please do stop going on about it. I’d rather hear about your life. Living with him, are you?”

“Yes.” He tried valiantly to change the subject, but his eyes kept overflowing even as he talked haltingly, painfully slowly about working at the Ministry and the cottage and his lab. Regularly, she wiped him up without saying a word about it.

“I didn’t know so bad,” he said finally. “At Manor.” _With you,_ he meant. But Malfoys didn’t say things like that even when their mouths were fully functional.

She licked her lips and her gaze dropped. “I understand why you left.”

“Wasn’t you.”

“It was, in part. And deserved, I think.” She turned her head, looking distantly out the window, the warm afternoon sun lighting up her pale skin. She looked lovely, he thought, even in the robe with part of her head shorn and swollen, yellow bruises distorting the line of her jaw. “I never left your father. Marriage is forever, whatever a woman might think about how a father influences his son.”

“You agreed,” he said quietly. He loved her, and he wanted her in his life, but he’d fought too hard to become a man he could respect. He wasn’t going to foster lies about what their choices in the past had meant.

“With the ideology,” she said proudly, meaning it still. Draco winced, but her gaze was still on the world beyond the window, and she didn’t notice. “But that ideology wasn’t what ended up living in our house. It was a perversion of our dignity. And your father was…weak. That same weakness is in you.” She turned back to look at him, her eyes reserved. “Or it was, at any rate. It took a great deal of strength to leave me behind.”

“I thought you hate me.”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I’m…rather proud of you, Draco.”

She collected more tissues with an air of resignation, but there was a slight smile on her lips when she came back, wiping up his face yet again. When she held one over his nose and said, “Blow,” he somehow ended up laughing.

“That doesn’t mean you should leave me again,” she said firmly.

He flopped his head in a rough approximation of a shake. “Agreed.”

“And Mr. Potter?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Draco couldn’t help grinning. “You’ll learn to love him.”

She made a face as if something smelled bad. “I’m sure.”

*

That night, while Harry was brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas in the bathroom, Draco awkwardly scooted to one side of his hospital bed. It took him several minutes, but by the time Harry came out, he’d successfully made enough room for another body on the mattress. Provided, of course, that they cuddled together.

Harry came out and proceeded to completely ignore the fact that he had to lean across a wealth of empty bedding to cast Draco’s teeth-cleaning charm. When that was done, Harry sighed once, putting his hand on the blanket and straightening out bunches in the fabric.

“Potter,” Draco said, trying to work his mouth to say, _get the fuck in the bed, you git._

“Good night,” Harry said, and turned away.

*

The next morning, after an unsatisfactory night of rocky sleep (he couldn’t toss and turn all that well, which was frustrating, because then even passive-aggressive noise-making was stolen from him), Draco decided he was angry in addition to hurt and confused.

It wasn’t just that Harry was being distant. It was that he was giving mixed messages. One second fierce in his defense of Draco, the next barely touching him any more than he absolutely had to. Trying to interpret Harry’s behavior was giving Draco a headache, and his temper, slower to rise these days but nevertheless very potent, was getting tired of it fast.

He set himself hard to the task of recovery, because a working mouth was the only way he was going to be able to effectively chew Harry out.

In his more honest moments, he wondered if his anger was actually driven by something else. And in his truly honest moments, which usually hit around three a.m. when Harry’s breathing was soft and steady with sleep, he thought that it was fear, and not anger, that left him so uneasy.

Maybe Harry had been disgusted by Draco when he was possessed by the Creature; maybe he was so crushed at the things the Creature had done (and which Draco had done by extension) that he wouldn’t be able to forgive Draco. Angie had been a good friend of his, after all. And Harry was suspended from the job he loved. All because of Draco.

It made sense, then, that the fierceness and support would remain—Harry might think, logically, that Draco hadn’t done anything wrong, and therefore deserved to get well and be treated right. But it was no wonder that Harry couldn’t bear to touch him. Knowing something with your head wasn’t the same as being able to bear it in your heart.

His anger faded so abruptly he felt drained and slack. If nothing else, it helped him sleep, but the pit in his stomach was still there in the morning.

Draco’s body was recovering more quickly than his mouth, but by his fifth day awake, he was spending less time sleeping and more time answering questions. Lots of questions. All the bloody questions.

The Ministry sent various groups—Weasley and Marrow first, two specialists in the field of Magical Creatures next, and then Draco spent four entirely frustrating hours with a band of six Unspeakables, none of whom knew how to speak _English_.

The moment the first one walked in—a gray, stretched woman with a mouth that had clearly only ever eaten lemons—and said, “The elaborate nature of the disregard is found primarily in the physicality of the host and the separation of the craft of all connected things, spell work, gravity and motion combined. It’s all right here…” Draco had known that it was going to be an exhausting afternoon.

And so Draco told them about the Creature, start to finish, good parts and bad, several different times. It took forever in each instance (in part because of his speech, which got less and less clear the longer it took, but also because everyone continued to interrupt to ask still more questions, something usually answered by Draco saying something along the lines of _I was getting to that. Shut up._ ) He answered questions about Angie under Veritaserum and gave fragments of his memories to Marrow, assured that they would be returned once the Unspeakables had gotten a chance to view them as well, not that Draco particularly wanted them back.

Through it all, Harry sat at his side and listened with an increasingly pinched look on his face. Didn’t matter how many times he’d heard the story, his body language always reflected a deep-seated unhappiness. Draco didn’t want to see Harry’s disgust with him, so after a while he found it easier to stop looking at him.

“The Creature cast _Avada Kedavra_?” One of the Unspeakables asked. This was a point everyone got stuck on, although of course, Harry hadn’t mentioned it—dying was sort of old hat for him, Draco supposed, and it wasn’t like it had stuck this time around either.

“It said the words,” Draco corrected. “I thought it worked, but Harry’s still alive, so obviously it didn’t.”

“Do you know why?” the man asked, even as the others started eyeballing Harry suspiciously.

“Not for sure. Maybe It just couldn’t access enough of my magic when the divide was up. Or…you have to really mean the Unforgivables, and the Creature was sort of…emotionless in a lot of ways. It might not have been able to work up the necessary hatred. It never quite got the hang of the Cruciatus. Or…”

“Or?” the Unspeakable prompted when Draco took a minute.

“Or maybe my magic knew what Harry’s death would do to me and just refused to work.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Harry’s head snap around to look at him, but Draco refused to look back. He could feel his cheeks getting red. He hurriedly moved on to the sensation of the Creature dying.

“How did you manage to hold on?” One of the Unspeakables asked at that point.

He didn’t see what help it would be to them to be specific, and besides, if what he’d said before was embarrassing, the whole ‘clinging to his love for Harry’ thing would be far worse to admit. It just seemed so _lame,_ and never more so than in the face of Harry’s distant behavior of late.

In the end he merely shrugged.

“And It was the last of Its kind?” the Unspeakable asked.

“That’s what It told me, anyway,” Draco said.

“And you’ve no idea what happened during those eleven missing hours?” the man continued.

That was something that still bothered Draco considerably. Sometimes his worry about those eleven hours left his nerves frayed and hypersensitive. Most likely, Draco told himself, the Creature had used that time to track down where the Freemantles lived or the location of the decrepit house concealing the  _Tua Est Terra_.

Most likely.

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “I don’t.”

“Well, that’s not your fault,” the Unspeakable said, clearly meaning the opposite. Draco reminded himself that he was a decent person, an upstanding citizen, and at least half-robot, depending on who you asked. He was not easily offended. It would be wrong to pretend that he had an arm spasm just so he could dump his cup of water in the Unspeakable’s lap.

That was also the day that Draco managed to get to and from the bathroom to take a piss all by himself though, so it wasn’t a total loss.

*

The Mediwitch who helped him bathe and do his exercises was a different woman now; this one was nearly ancient, and although her gnarled-with-age hands and bent-over frame made her look like she might tip over in a windstorm, she was doubtlessly the strongest person Draco had ever met. She would lift Draco’s entire leg with one hand or help him to his feet without blinking, and it didn’t take long before he stopped thinking that if he leaned on her they would both go down. Her name was Betty, and she didn’t treat him like scum because of his Dark Mark. She treated him like scum because she treated everyone like scum; she seemed to think Harry was an arrogant arse, and she could be heard grumbling under her breath almost constantly. This was something that sort of endeared her to him.

Betty pinched him a few times when he didn’t move quickly enough, though. He was less fond of her when she did that.

Each time during his bath, Betty would step out so that Harry could take over and wash Draco’s genitals. It was agony. Each time, Draco got hard and after days of this, Draco became increasingly desperate. He began to contemplate making slutty little movements as his control over his body got better, thinking maybe Harry would find that attractive and stop resisting. Draco thought about saying dirty things, just to tease—and hopefully, move things the hell along.

Unfortunately, Harry’s demeanor at bath time was resoundingly brisk, and Draco wouldn’t have gotten the message any clearer that sex was off the table if Harry had printed a sign saying _closed for business_ and worn it round his neck.

So Draco did nothing, unhappy about the likely rejection, resentful that he would have to resort to such measures anyway. He couldn’t help getting hard, though, and each time, Harry silently went about his task as if Draco wasn’t all but panting in his hands.

And each time, Draco’s mood deflated and he thought _I was too late._

It wasn’t just about the sex, either. It was about what he’d realized in that field when Harry had nearly died. The biggest problem here was not that Draco had too much pride to risk laying his new feelings out for Harry only to be rejected. That was a problem, certainly, but not the biggest. The biggest was simply that he didn’t know _how._

Harry did this sort of thing so easily—buying a telly and getting Draco into letting him move in and saying that he loved him. It had never once seemed to take effort, Harry’s brand of emotional manipulation. Draco found himself wondering which one of them was the fucking Slytherin around here because he couldn’t figure out how to work the situation so Harry would understand that Draco was ready to give back everything he’d been taking so selfishly until now.

Harry wouldn’t give him a chance. It was always tiny, aborted touches and smiles that faded quickly and flawless support in all the moments when Draco needed it most, only to find that when the moment passed, Harry would step back, creating distance, and keep everything warm and wonderful to himself again. Draco couldn’t tell if Harry hated him or felt guilty or was being nice or what, but it wasn’t going away any time soon, that much was clear.

And Draco’s fear was getting thicker.

*

On the night before he was to be released, Draco spoke into the darkness. He could tell by Harry’s breathing that he wasn’t asleep, but he nearly didn’t expect an answer anyway.

“Are you going to be able to forgive me?” he asked softly, his chest pounding. “For the way I treated you?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Harry said.

“I should’ve done more for you.”

Harry didn’t answer for a long time.

“I didn’t know,” Draco tried to explain. “About how I fe—”

“Don’t think like that,” Harry interrupted, then said carefully, firmly, “You couldn’t have saved Angie.”

“That’s not what I…Potter, I meant…” _For not realizing we’re more than just fucking,_ Draco thought, but that wasn’t how you said that sort of thing, was it? Especially not when you’d had two years and it was only now that you realized how stupid you were, how hurtful you’d been. Harry deserved more than a backwards, annoyed blurting of it. He deserved something special. And Draco’s throat felt tight, because he was fucking up and he didn’t know how to _stop_.

He’d always assumed his mother and father had been in love. But since he’d gotten together with Harry, he’d had to amend that opinion. He’d never seen his parents fight or kiss or hug, and they’d never joked around with each other, and altogether it had been quite cold in their house. It had seemed normal enough at the time, but now he knew that the feelings he had for his parents were nothing like the ones he had for Harry. His feelings for Harry were big and messy and uncomfortable to contain.

His definition of love had been as flawed as the Creature’s had been. That took some time to reconcile.

He was so terrified he was going to do the wrong thing that he couldn’t seem to do _anything_ beyond making these pathetic little overtures for Harry to touch him or sleep with him. And Harry had been more than clear on that account, Draco supposed.

“We’re not okay,” Draco whispered. “Are we?”

“We’re fine,” Harry said, but he sounded blank, like he didn’t want to answer.

“All right.”

“Get some sleep,” Harry said, and rolled over.

So add that to the list of things they weren’t talking about.

*

Harry was tentative in the morning, watching Draco with intent eyes, always ready to get something Draco needed, but not instigating a damn thing—act or conversation—on his own.

At first, Draco was annoyed—Harry was being _cautious,_ like Draco was a poisonous kind of bug that he wasn’t sure how to treat—but as the day went on and the discharge process began, Draco’s mood took a definite upswing, because the idea of finally getting out of hospital was like Christmas. He found himself smiling at all sorts of stupid things. When Betty came in for his last session of exercises, he grinned at her (which she seemed to find quite offensive), and he told Harry that the soggy waffles they had for breakfast were actually much better than the soggy pancakes from the day before, prompting a raised eyebrow. And later, Draco got a Weird Sisters song stuck in his head and ended up humming it over and over even though he didn’t care much for their music. He couldn’t help it.

“You’re in a good mood,” Harry said, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I feel like I’m getting out of prison,” Draco said, tapping a hand on his thigh impatiently. “And I know what it feels like to be trapped, trust me, so this is…this is a good day.”

Harry’s smile grew, crinkling his eyes now. “It is a good day,” he agreed, and his hand jerked once before suddenly tunneling into Draco’s hair. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead, quick and a little artless, and then pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No,” Draco replied instantly. “Don’t…don’t apologize.”

Harry nodded and turned away to get Draco’s slippers, but the small smile had come back—Draco could see it in the lift of his cheeks as he hid his face.

After a last visit from Granger to get approval, he and Harry returned to the cottage with bags in hand, where Draco was assaulted two steps out of the floo by a small elf in tears. Goober kept saying things, but the words were mangled by sobs, and finally Draco awkwardly knelt and gave the trembling creature a hug. He could see Harry grinning widely over Goober’s shoulder, and then Draco’s eyes lit on the empty takeaway boxes on the coffee table. And the end table. And the _floor._

He jerked out of Goober’s arms. Harry wrapped a hand around his bicep to help him to his feet, then promptly took a step away. Eyes wide, Draco asked, “What the bloody hell?”

He surveyed the room, saw dirty shirts and robes thrown over the banister, scraps of parchment, quills and old copies of the Prophet—Draco had a subscription, even if Harry never read it—piled up on the opposite end table. A dirty plate resting on the arm of the sofa, a half-drunk mug of tea on top of the telly. The room smelled stale with the remnants of curry, and the place badly needed a dusting up.

“If the kitchen and bathroom look like this, I’ll murder you,” Draco said to Harry, who had begun to creep in the general direction of the stairs, innocence pasted uselessly on his face. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Master Harry said not to clean,” Goober said quickly, pointing at Harry, apparently feeling no shame about throwing his other master to the wolves.

“I’ll bet,” Draco said grimly.

“It’s just that you do it so well,” Harry said brightly, still edging away. “And I know you prefer to do this sort of thing yourself. I was so busy with the hearings and…and then…well, would you believe I forgot about it? So…happy homecoming.”

“You say that with crusted Styrofoam and smelly socks? Try flowers next time.” Draco stared for a long second, then saw something dart through his field of vision. “Potter,” he said, in a low, deadly voice. “Was that a fruit fly I just saw in my house?”

Harry ran for it.

“Some bloody Gryffindor, you enormous coward!” Draco shouted, listening to the pound of Harry’s feet racing for the second story. “It’s not fair running from me when I can’t chase you, you arse, and it won’t do you any good anyway, because I know where you sleep! And if you think I’m sleeping on this couch with your _filth_ just because my legs are still weak and I can’t get to the bedroom, you’ve got another—oh, Merlin, I’m going to rend the flesh from your fucking bones, Potter, because I just stepped in…what the hell _is_ this? Oh, you better not sleep tonight, you rat bastard, because I’m going to take out your _eyes._ ”

“You won’t get up the stairs without my help,” Harry shouted back. “And Hermione said you’re supposed to move around and do stuff anyway. It’s good therapy.”

“Fucker,” Draco yelled. “You lazy bastard!”

“I was thinking of you!”

If Draco could hear threads of laughter in Harry’s voice, he was clearly not being frightening enough, he decided. “I’m going to do horrific things to your body, you wanker!”

“Promise?”

“No sex for a fucking month!” Draco screeched, forgetting that they weren’t having sex anyway.

“You’ll never make it!” Harry shouted back, apparently forgetting it too.

“Oh, yes I will,” Draco growled under his breath, stomping into the kitchen and then letting out a wordless howl of fury at the sheer number of dishes in the sink. “And I’m going to do things to you with scissors. Your bollocks are coming off, Potter. I’m going to hang them in my fucking lab to remind me of your _pain._ ”

He rolled up his sleeves and set to work with a sneer. He muttered angrily for a while, aware after a bit of the noises coming from the living room—things being thrown in the trash if he wasn’t mistaken, and Harry’s occasional tuneless humming. The next time he looked up, Goober was lingering in the doorway.

“Help him, will you, Goober?” Draco asked. “He’s useless as a dead man’s dick.”

“Help clean?” Goober squeaked. “First cleaning, you is meaning? And then you clean after?”

“I’m damn tired already,” Draco said, realizing he was sweating pretty heavily. “Your cleaning will do.”

Goober’s eyes nearly fell out of his head, and then the elf scarpered back into the living room so fast he nearly left a cartoon cloud of dust behind. A moment later he heard the high-pitched voice giving Harry imperious orders, and Draco found himself amused despite his severe annoyance with all living things at the moment. More than amused, even. He felt light.

This felt like them. The bickering, the humor, the play that was also legitimate conflict at the same time. This was normal, and for the first time since he’d woken up, he thought perhaps he hadn’t missed his window with Harry after all.

He’d gotten through several loads of dishes by hand before his back began to cramp, and at that point Draco really couldn’t be fussed about it. The whole thing was stupid, he decided. He had a wand, didn’t he? And he could always clean the grout by hand tomorrow if he wanted to, which, to be honest, he might even be looking forward to. But for now, he spelled away grime and scoured pots with charms while he sat in one of the straight-backed chairs nearby.

It was only when he felt Harry’s arms lifting him that he realized he’d fallen asleep at the table. “Potter,” he mumbled, his tongue uncoordinated from fatigue. “Your stupid face. How do you not have spattergroit?”

“Pure dumb luck,” Harry said, a smile in his voice. Draco got the sense from the jolting ride that Harry was taking him upstairs.

“You owe me,” Draco grumbled. “Foot rubs. All of them.”

“Fair enough.”

“And we’re watching _Steel Magnolias_ when I wake up.” The words were barely intelligible, he was sure, but then, Harry had gotten pretty good at deciphering the mess.

Harry chuckled softly.

“We are,” Draco insisted. He could tell from the wall behind Harry’s shoulder that they were in the bedroom. “Oh, Merlin, don’t put me down, I’ll die of rabies.”

“I changed the sheets while I was up here in case you needed a nap,” Harry replied, his voice fond. “Rabies? How do you know about rabies?”

“We watched _Cujo_ , remember?” Draco muttered, eyes closed, mind already drifting.

Somehow there was a mattress beneath him, and someone nice was taking his shoes off, and then there was only the brush of a kiss against his forehead.

*

They got better. Really. They’d left some of the awkwardness at St. Mungo’s, and Draco’s willingness to accept help with the cleaning meant that the place was fairly spic and span the very next day. It didn’t hurt that Harry had stayed up long after Draco had passed out, working on the bathroom as a nonverbal apology.

But instead of awkwardness, they reached a bizarre state of not-yet. Harry would reach out for him and then yank his hand back—nothing new there, but Draco could see it in his eyes, the way he was torn. Like he didn’t want to want Draco.

And Draco, for that matter, found the ground between them murky enough that he felt intimidated at the idea of making the first move. He was worried (and he didn’t think it was irrational) that Harry would push him away again. So he would tense up when Harry did touch him, because he wasn’t sure what to do or how to respond so Harry would know it was okay, and then it didn’t matter anyway, because it turned out that Harry was only scooting him over or helping him up or some other such nonsense, and if Draco didn’t get off soon, he was not going to be responsible for the rash of murders he committed.

Worse, Harry was still on suspension, which meant he was _right there_ all the time, just out of reach, with his broad shoulders and flat belly and clean skin, and those long fingers that absently stroked the rim of his mug in the morning, and Draco couldn’t get through a day without wanting to bite him somewhere.

Harry had installed a bar in the shower so Draco could bathe on his own. But while he’d always been really rigid about refusing to shower with Harry, for the first time the whole process felt…well, lonely. He’d gotten used to Harry’s presence, arousing and confusing as it may have been, and he wanted it back, although he thought it might be weird if he asked Harry to start showering with him just for fun. He briefly considered pretending he was having trouble handling it on his own, but eventually discarded the idea because it was more likely to scare Harry than turn him on.

But he thought about it. And he tried to wank to it, only to realize he wasn’t quite strong enough to hold himself up in the shower while he did so. His legs got weak and he nearly fell before he caught himself, which was embarrassing and made him relieved that he was alone after all.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want to punch Harry in the face when he got out.

This shouldn’t be this hard, he told himself. It had never felt this hard before. Other people were more adept, weren’t they? He’d seen Granger and Weasley—even when they were fighting, they were better at being in a relationship than Draco was. Which, finally, gave him an idea.

*

At his next follow-up appointment with Granger at St. Mungo’s, Draco asked Harry to remain in the waiting room, much to Harry’s confusion and concern. Granger didn’t comment on it, just led the way back to her office, where Draco climbed up on the exam table with relative ease, trying not to feel guilty.

Granger started by taking his temperature. “How are you, Draco?”

“Better, I think. Yesterday I managed to stay awake the entire day without a single nap.”

“Progress, indeed,” she said, gratifyingly pleased, using her wand to check his blood pressure and whatever else she checked during these visits. “The muscle aches?”

“Still there, but the potion is making a big difference.”

“Are you able to brew yet?”

He held out a hand; only a slight tremor remained. “Best to give it a couple days?” he asked.

“Perhaps try something easy,” she said, taking his fingers and testing their flexibility. “If the tremor gets worse, back off, but it’s entirely possible that your fine motor control will react just like your large muscle groups. The more you do, the better it might get.”

“All right.”

“Your speech seems perfectly normal.”

“Until I get tired,” he agreed.

“And sex?” she asked, carefully neutral.

Draco cleared his throat. “Uh, no. We…um. Haven’t.”

“Not feeling up to it?”

He shrugged. “I would be, but Harry’s…” he broke off, looking at the door to the exam room as if Harry might be listening out in the hallway. “He’s being very careful with me.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” she asked. “Open your mouth, please?”

Draco did, letting her poke and prod at his eyes and ears as he continued. “But I’m not…well, bad off any more. I think maybe I’m better.”

“I’d say so,” she agreed, patting him once on the leg.

“No, Granger, I mean maybe I’m _better_.”

She paused, frowning. “The anxiety?”

“Not gone,” he admitted. He felt a little stiff talking about it—Robot Malfoy, he heard Harry’s voice say in his head, and maybe that was true, but it was really hard not to try to be better with people, knowing how they would react if he wasn’t—but Granger knew everything else anyway. Besides, this was the plan. She was smart, she had a long-term relationship, and she was a girl, which meant she was automatically good at shit like this. Plus, the biggest benefit was that she knew Harry. “But I haven’t had a single panic attack, and a lot of the worrying is gone. And I’m not scared to go out anymore. I’m not scared of people like I was. I think after everything that happened, maybe I trust myself in a way I didn’t before. I’m not as afraid that I’ll lose control and do something awful.”

Granger’s smile warmed considerably. “Oh, Draco, I’m so glad. You’ve proven yourself a dozen times over, and I’ve been waiting for the day when you give yourself credit for all the changes you’ve made. Well done.”

He flushed slightly and looked away. “The thing is, I don’t think Harry realizes it. He’s not keeping me in the house or anything, but the way he talks and stuff…he thinks I’m still scared, so he’s not putting any pressure on me. And it’s not that I _want_ pressure, exactly, because that would be stupid. I just want him to feel like he can ask for what he wants too, because now I can give some of it back. I’ve been selfish, I think. But I don’t know what to do to convince him.”

She opened her mouth to respond, and he suddenly blurted out, “I love him.”

And yes, that was his face turning the color of a tomato.

“That’s wonderful,” she breathed, so kind and sweet that he looked at her resentfully.

“You think so?” he asked.

“I do.” Granger laughed softly. “I bet that made him very happy.”

“I haven’t told him,” Draco said.

She blinked. “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t enough,” he snapped. Granger was smart. How did she not _see_ this?

“Draco,” she began, but he interrupted, his concern about the whole thing bubbling up seemingly out of nowhere.

“You don’t know what I’ve put him through. Two years of making him walk through a minefield. He’s been supportive every step of the way, and all I’ve done is withhold…I had my reasons, and they weren’t invalid, exactly. I just know better now. And I want to prove to him that it won’t be like that anymore, but I can’t just say it, not now, not after everything he’s done for me, like that’s all it takes to put us on even ground. The words are nothing in comparison. I have to _do_ something, something that shows how, how, um, _big_ this feeling is, but I don’t know how to do this sort of thing, and everything I come up with is complete shit, he’s completely miserable and half the time he won’t even touch me and I thought maybe you could tell me what to do so he’ll stay.”

“He’s going to stay,” she said, looking a little wide-eyed and worried. “And please take a breath.”

He obeyed, feeling empty and more than a little insecure. So much for the theory that his anxiety was resolving. He was shaking a little. “Why would he?”

“Because that big feeling you have is the same as his,” she pointed out. “And if he didn’t leave when you were struggling, he’s not going to leave now that you’re doing better. That wouldn’t be a logical decision.”

“Stop being a therapist to me,” he said, annoyed. “Be a girl. Tell me how to do something romantic so he’ll be happy already.”

“He _is_ happy,” she said, smiling at him gently.

Draco swallowed hard. “I don’t think he is. It’s been…awkward. He’s holding back.”

She made a humming sound, her brow creasing. “I haven’t noticed him acting any differently to you, to be clear. But whether he is or not, I still think your best bet is to be honest. Speak from the heart.”

“That’s not enough,” he said, shaking his head. She didn’t understand how wrong it felt between them at times, how far away Harry could be. Draco glanced at her and could feel the guilt and regret in his expression hit her; the smile faded and she put her hand on his.

“I’m not enough,” he murmured. “I don’t know what he’s doing here. And for the first time, I really know how badly I need him to stay, and I don’t know how to do that. Could you please just tell me the answer?”

“It’s not a test,” she said, sounding a little sad. “And even if it was, the answer will mean more if it comes from you, not me. Tell him how you feel. Be honest. Then maybe you can ask him what you can do to make it better for him. Give him a chance to be honest in return.”

“You’re someone’s girlfriend,” he said, getting impatient. “You’re supposed to be better at this.”

She laughed. “Harry’s a simple kind of guy. All he wants is you. Trust him. Tell him.”

“Should I buy him flowers?” He could see her biting her lip now, and he sighed. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Not _at_ you. I’m happy, that’s all. Harry’s my best friend, and I’m over the moon that you’re able to give him what he needs. Even if you’re still not very good at listening.”

“Cheeky wench,” Draco said sourly. “So no flowers?”

“You can do flowers if you want to,” she said, and no matter what she said, she was definitely laughing at him. He considered getting mad, but figured that after everything she’d done for him, he could swallow a few choice insults. “But look, if you really want to make a big gesture, maybe think about what you could do to convince him that you’re reaching out in turn. If you’ve always kept him at a distance, what could symbolize closeness?”

Draco thought about it. “I could initiate sex more often, I guess.”

She rolled her eyes. “Men.” After a second, she said, “Emotional closeness, Draco. That’s not just about sex.”

He scowled. “I’ve met Hippogriffs that were less work than you.”

She grinned at him even as she shook her head. “You’re making this way too complicated. Tell him you love him and then, if you really must, give him something that will symbolize your time together. Something meaningful.” She paused, then added dryly, “Something that isn’t sex related. It’ll work out. I promise. Now please get out of my office, because you are healthy and this is not a problem I can solve for you.”

He got off the table, giving her a dirty look. “You used to be more helpful at this sort of stuff.”

“You used to need more help,” she replied, then waved pointedly.

He turned to go, then paused. He didn’t dare look back for this part. “I owe you a great deal, Granger. I’m not good at saying crap like this, but thank you. And if you think he wouldn’t mind it, I’d like to stop by and thank Weasley too.”

A soft hand rested on his shoulder for a heartbeat. “You’re more than welcome, Draco. And feel free to drop by to see him tonight if you like. I’m not home until eight, but Ron will be there after six.”

*

Despite Harry’s worried glances, Draco made his way to see Weasley unaccompanied, and the gratitude part of the brief visit—no more than three minutes from start to finish—was painfully uncomfortable but clearly appreciated.

On his way toward the floo, he caved to a sudden urge and asked, “What do you do when you’ve fucked up with Granger?”

Weasley snorted from where he was lounging on the sofa with a bag of crisps in his hand. “You’re asking me for relationship advice?”

“I asked her first,” Draco replied defensively, “but she was all, ‘it’ll mean more if you figure it out for yourself.’”

“That’s my girl,” Weasley said, grinning. “She used to say that whenever she wouldn’t help me or Harry with our homework.”

“You mean when she wouldn’t just do it for you,” Draco inferred.

“Yeah.” He shoveled another handful of crisps into his mouth, his freckled face warm with nostalgia.

“So?” Draco shifted his weight, almost wishing he hadn’t asked, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave, not if the answer was here. “What do you do to make up?”

“I usually bring her flowers.”

“I suggested that and she laughed at me,” Draco exclaimed.

“She did?” Weasley asked, frowning and sitting up straight. “Really?”

Draco nodded grimly. “Yeah, you might want to rethink that little habit.”

“Huh.”

They were quiet for a minute. “Look,” Weasley said finally, looking uncomfortable. “I know he loves you. And, uh, I know you don’t love him back, but—”

“I do,” Draco interrupted quietly. “I haven’t said it, but I do.”

Weasley lifted both eyebrows. “Oh. Well, you should tell him.”

“After two years of him thinking I don’t, you think saying it once is going to fix it?”

Weasley rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Bloody hell, man, I don’t know. Just…do something that proves you want to stick around, all right?”

“Buy him something, you mean?”

“Maybe.” Weasley’s frown deepened as he thought. “Hermione likes it better when I get something symbolic.”

“Like what? Give me an example.”

The redhead grumbled something under his breath, then said, “When she got her Healer status, I got her a stetacope.”

Draco blinked. “A what?”

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Weasley said, flushing brilliant red. “You give them to Muggle healers when they graduate so they can listen to people better, I guess. Wizards don’t use ‘em, and the traditional Healer present isn’t really her sort of thing…”

“A ring with bloodstone,” Draco murmured. “From the old days when all the Healers were purebloods.”

“But she’s…”

“Muggleborn,” Draco mused. “So it’s like you were supporting her in two different ways.”

“I guess.” Weasley seemed eager for a subject change. “So you and Harry rowed?”

“Not exactly.” Draco chewed on his lip.

Weasley sighed. “The difference with me and Hermione is that we already know how we feel about each other. We know, first and foremost now, that we want to be together forever. We can tiff and it doesn’t rock us because we both know it. Maybe you have to show him that you’re really in it.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “Yeah, maybe.” He looked back at the floo, anxious to end this, the most ungainly conversation of his life. “Thanks, Weasley.”

“Sure,” Weasley said, sounding relieved as all hell that Draco was going.

Draco returned to the cottage with a sense of accomplishment, and hoped desperately that he would never be alone with Weasley again. It was weird.

Harry was on the couch, gazing in the direction of the telly even though he clearly wasn’t paying attention to it. He jumped up as soon as Draco returned, and he surveyed Draco from head to foot with anxious eyes.

“You okay?” he asked.

Draco stood there and stared at him for a minute. Harry Potter. Brave and mostly smart and beautiful in a tough, square sort of way, and all Draco wanted was that first perfect day back. It had happened so long ago that he almost couldn’t remember it, had begun to think that maybe he was romanticizing it. But now that there was so much space in between them, he kept thinking back to that day, when they’d been so close and everything had seemed possible.

They might never get that back, he realized, his stomach sinking. But then he wondered whether it was really necessary after all. Say it was never perfect again. What then? Would one of them leave anyway? Was it only worthwhile if it was perfect? Not in Draco’s mind. He loved Harry, and even in this awkward, in-between state they were in, Harry was still the most wonderful person Draco knew.

Harry was everything. And even if they never got back to that perfect day, Draco wasn’t giving him up, even if meant he was being selfish. He didn’t care what that made him. He hadn’t changed _that_ much. Harry was _his._

“I have to go,” Draco said, and walked past Harry out into the afternoon, down the walk and out into the lane, half aware of Harry following him with apprehensive stammers.

“But where are you going?” Harry asked.

“I’m all right,” Draco said. “I’ll be back.”

Then he disapparated.

*

Two hours later, Harry heard the crack that signaled Draco’s return and he scrambled to his feet. He’d spent the time staring in the general direction of the telly and pretending to read something—he still wasn’t sure what—while really he was thinking about all the things that might be bothering Draco.

Harry was fucking up. He knew that. No matter what he did, there was an air of dissatisfaction about Draco, and Harry kept doing what he’d always done, only now Draco’s responses were all messed up. No matter how much space Harry gave him, Draco responded with thinning lips and a creased brow, and Harry wondered if maybe something to do with this whole Creature business had changed Draco in a fundamental way. Or maybe Harry’s skills at reading Draco had atrophied.

In the shower, for example. Draco had always hated Harry being in the shower with him, hated it violently It was too intimate for him, and Harry _knew_ that, knew just how much Draco must’ve hated being in hospital, dependent on Harry for help with one of the most intimate things a person could do. And then, how worried he must’ve been that Harry would get the wrong idea just because Draco got hard. And Draco had seen Harry’s erection at least once, too, which couldn’t have been comforting. So Harry had tried hard to prove that he wasn’t going to infringe just because Draco was vulnerable. He thought he’d stuck to the space Draco had left him, but he must have made a misstep somewhere.

Because it had only made Draco angry and sulky.

And Harry had fought every last clingy instinct he had, over and over, because if there was a worse feeling than not being able to touch Draco when he wanted to, it was the feeling of being shaken off—he’d learned that one in the early days. So he’d been _good,_ dammit, and watched that line, and still Draco was unhappy.

Harry was going fucking crazy, because he could feel the anxiety and discontent radiating off the other man in waves, and he didn’t know how to _fix_ it.

It didn’t help that as Draco got better and his color and grace came back, he only became more and more beautiful. Harry couldn’t breathe standing next to him, he wanted to touch Draco so badly. Those showers had driven him insane, and sleeping beside Draco without even the possibility of getting out some of this madness was not helping. He knew Draco’s moods, and when Draco was unhappy, instigating sex was a good way to get a hand bitten off, so Harry lay there, hard as rock, unable to keep the circling thoughts of Draco nude and spread out and aching for it from hijacking his mind.

Part of Harry wondered how long it would be before Draco left him. His anxiety was getting better and he clearly didn’t have any problems going out on his own anymore. Nothing Harry did seemed to make him happy. They hadn’t fucked once, and every time Harry put a hand on Draco’s arm, the other man’s gaze would snap to his with painful intensity and Harry would quail.

Really, it was starting to seem like only a matter of time.

So when Draco got home from wherever he’d been, cheeks pink with cold, eyes tight and determined, Harry got an extremely sick feeling in his stomach.

“Wait,” he said, sure he knew what was coming.

“Go upstairs, get in the shower, and then get dressed in something Muggle,” Draco said flatly. His hands came together and knotted in front of him.

“Why?” Harry asked, his thunder stalled by the odd request.

“Because I said so.”

“Because you—are you kidding?”

“No. Do it.”

“No. Not until you tell me why.”

Through gritted teeth, Draco said, “Would you please work with me here a little?” Then he hesitated, blowing out a breath. “Please?”

Torn between being flummoxed and terrified, Harry exhaled hard. “Fine.” He went upstairs.

The Creature was dead, he reminded himself. He’d seen Its viperous little body, burning in the dirt. This was Draco, just Draco running around and keeping things from Harry again. It was Draco being distant and unhappy and oh, hell, what if he was leaving? What if this was his way of doing it in public or something so that Harry couldn’t make a scene?

Harry bent over in the shower and tried to slow his breathing, telling himself that he would not freak out. If Draco wanted to end things, Harry would be calm and dignified and he would wait until he was alone before had a meltdown. He wouldn’t humiliate Draco.

Then Harry thought _fuck that_ and stood back up.

Draco could take him wherever the fuck he wanted; Harry didn’t care. He’d make the biggest scene the world had ever witnessed. He’d blow the Statute of Secrecy out of the damn water if he had to. Draco wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.

It was the most furious, resentful shower of his life, and when he got out he was ready to kick something. He threw on a t-shirt and jeans with a ripped knee, simply because he knew that would make Draco crazy, and then went downstairs with his hair still matted with water.

“What?” he asked petulantly when Draco only stared at him.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Draco muttered. “Would you please go back upstairs and do something to the mess on your head. We’re going out.”

“I put that together, thanks. And no. I’m fine with how I look.”

“Well, I’m not.” Draco pulled out his wand and shot a drying spell at Harry, blasting him in the face with heat and making his hair stand on end.

Draco frowned. “That’s not any better.”

Harry took his glasses off and rubbed them clean on his t-shirt. “Thanks for that.”

“Are you ready? Did you brush your teeth?” Draco brandished his wand and suddenly Harry’s mouth felt fresher and he felt his temper spark.

“Did you just clean my teeth?” he gritted out.

“You’ve been doing it to me for weeks,” Draco pointed out.

“Because you couldn’t do it yourself!”

“And I did it for you because you _wouldn’t_ do it yourself. Let’s go.”

Harry folded his arms across his chest. “No.”

“Oh, for the love—look, Potter, I get that you’re in a bitchy mood, but I don’t really have time for this.”

“I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience.”

Draco stood there for a long moment, glaring, then said, “You’re fucking this up.”

“Fucking what up?” Harry asked, abruptly cold again. “Our relationship?” He took a quick breath. “Because I know that. I know it’s been bad lately. And maybe you’re as tired of it as I am.” _So we’ll fix it,_ he was about to say. _Give me a chance to fix it._

But Draco was quicker. “I’m not tired,” he said. His cheeks had lost the pretty blush they’d had earlier; now he looked pale and hesitant. “Don’t…fuck, this is…oh, fuck it. Here.”

And he pulled a small box out of his coat pocket and held it out.

Harry blinked. “What is that?”

“Take it.”

“Why?” Harry asked, deeply suspicious and unhappy, because the box was the right size and the right shape for _that_ , and Harry thought that he might be about to vomit, because he knew what that box might be, in which case he knew why Draco was asking, and that made him sick, deeply sick. “I don’t want it.”

Draco went very still. “You don’t?”

“Not…not like…you don’t have to feel guilty.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you don’t have to do this because you feel guilty. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, I do,” Draco said again, his voice harder, his eyes angry. “I owe you a hell of a lot more than this, so would you just…take the damn…please?

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Harry said, and fuck, he was going to cry. He was going to cry because there was a fucking ring in that box, and Harry knew it and it was horrible because it was all wrong, happening for all the wrong reasons. And maybe part of Harry really wished he could say yes and just pretend that Draco meant it the way Harry wished he did. But it was one thing to be in a relationship with someone when you suspected they didn’t love you yet. It was another thing entirely to let them commit to you for life when you _knew_ they didn’t love you and likely never would. On the surface, this would seem like a better thing than Draco wanting to leave, but really it was worse, far worse, because it would be so easy to just let it happen even if it was fucked up, even if Draco was only doing this because he felt guilty. It was Harry’s reward for being decent and he kind of wanted to punch Draco in his pretty, pink mouth for offering Harry everything he wanted in a way that meant he could never take it.

Draco looked away and swallowed. “Is it that bad?” he said, trying for lightness. He lowered the box back to his side.

“Draco, you don’t have to do this. Can we just…forget you did this?” Harry asked.

“But I want to,” Draco said in a tiny voice.

“Because I stuck around?” Harry asked bitterly, and spun on his heel. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t keep saying no, not when Draco looked beautiful and hurt and like he was trying so hard to do the right thing, and Harry didn’t want to be the _right_ thing, he wanted to be _everything_ , and that was never going to happen. “That’s a hell of a reason to propose. Because I stuck around,” he muttered to himself, feeling furious and cut open. “Because you think you can’t do better because of your anxiety and your past, even though you’re mental if you don’t know how impossibly perfect you—”

“It’s because I love you, you twat!” Draco yelled, and then something clocked Harry in the back of the head with enough force to make his eyes water. He turned around slowly, shocked, and saw that Draco had thrown the ring box at him and was now staring at him with angry gray eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said dimly, his brain having stopped working, although he wasn’t sure if that was because of Draco’s shouted declaration or the concussion. “I’m…I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said I love you,” Draco choked out. “And I’m sorry, okay, for all the times I made you feel like I didn’t, and I know I was awful, and I don’t know why you stuck around, but now you’re acting all weird and I don’t know why and you don’t get to leave me!”

By the end of the speech, Draco had gotten shrill and loud again, and Harry didn’t know what half of that meant anyway, but he could address the last bit.

“I’m not leaving, you git,” he said. “And I’m not the one acting weird. You’re the one who’s mad and twitchy.”

“Me?” Draco asked. His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red again, flushed with upset. “You’re the one who keeps giving mixed messages. One second you’re there, the next you’re pulling away. Why can’t you just stay close to me?”

“I’ve always done that,” Harry said, confused. “That’s what makes you happy. It’s what keeps you from booting me out on my arse. It’s not easy, I’ll admit, because you can be hard to read, but I thought I’d gotten pretty good at telling your moods until this whole business.”

“Why the fuck would you put up with that? This is a nightmare, honestly!”

“It was the only way I could have you,” Harry explained, feeling the most bizarre mixture of fondness and resentment he’d ever known. This _idiot_. “Whenever I held on, you got all squirmy! And don’t get mad at me just because you got to see what it’s like for a couple weeks.”

Draco’s face crumpled. “Well, not anymore, okay? Because it feels awful, and I don’t like it, and I want you here, next to me, all the time.” His chin wobbled and the first tear fell, and Harry’s heart softened and broke all at once, even as Draco kept going. “I won’t get mad anymore. I promise.”

“Well, that’s never going to happen,” Harry said, suddenly feeling outrageously cheerful. He took three steps and kissed Draco, right on his sullen, pouty, unhappy mouth, coaxing the soft lips beneath his to warm and part. He licked his way in, feeling Draco turn first responsive and then impatient, and Harry lifted his head with the sensation of having been caught in an undertow. “The day that Draco Malfoy doesn’t get mad will mean the Earth has burned up in the sun.”

Draco sniffed. “You don’t have to be an arse about it. Can we have sex now?”

Harry laughed. “No. I’d rather look at what you got me.”

Draco pulled away a little. “You don’t have to wear it. Maybe you won’t even like it.”

“Maybe I will,” Harry said easily. “At the very least, it’ll function as an effective weapon.” He bent and picked up the box, pulling it open with a sense of overwhelming pleasure, far stronger than the foreboding he’d felt mere minutes before. Inside was a plain silver circle. Not an engagement ring after all, or at least not a traditional one. Not a promise to get ready or to plan or to think about it. This was a wedding band. It wasn’t a promise at all. It was a fact.

“Draco,” he whispered.

Speaking quickly, as if he thought the reverence in Harry’s voice could somehow be mistaken for anything else, Draco said, “Granger said I should figure out something on my own, and not to get flowers, and Weasley said I should do something that’s symbolic of where I want to be with you and this is where I want to be. When the Creature was going to kill you, it…it broke something in me. And I knew. I knew how stupid I was not to have figured it out, and how incredibly beyond stupid I was to only figure it out when I’d never get the chance to say it. It’s not guilt. That’s not why, okay?”

“Okay.” Harry paused—he’d been so busy staring at the ring that it took a second for his ears to feed all those words to his brain. And they were nice words, so he definitely wanted to keep them, although he got hung up back at the beginning for a second. “You talked to Ron? That’s why you went over there?”

“And I’m never going back,” Draco said fervently. “It was the most uncomfortable conversation of my life.”

Harry laughed.

“Do you like it?” Draco asked.

“It’s perfect.”

“Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

Harry grinned, staring at Draco’s spiky, wet eyelashes and soft, hopeful expression. “Of course I’m saying yes.”

“Thank fuck,” Draco said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I was starting to think I was going to have to imperious you.”

Harry, leaning in for a kiss, hesitated briefly before deciding that Draco was joking. Probably. Then he concentrated on Draco’s warm mouth opening under his, the lean body pressing enthusiastically against his, the long arms holding him close.

He’d gotten a little lost in the heat and the slide of tongues and so it took him a second to catch on that Draco was pushing him away. He cast a quick tempus charm.

“And we’re officially late,” he grumbled.

“For getting married?” Harry asked, his voice going up an octave.

“For dinner, you prat,” Draco said, finally laughing. “I made reservations. Believe it or not, my intention was not to propose by hitting you in the head with the ring.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Harry muttered. He took the ring out, weighed it in his palm. It was heavy. That was good, he decided. It should have weight. “And as much as I like the whole idea of waiting an hour for another table so we can celebrate, I can think of better things we can do with the time.”

*

Draco watched Harry put the ring back in the box and set both on the table, a small smile playing on his lips. “Better than champagne and oysters? I don’t know. I have slept with you before, you know. I’m not sure you’re really up to the—”

Then Harry was shoving him against the wall, cradling his skull in those strong hands so he didn’t hit his head, his teeth already scraping against his lower lip, then lowering before Draco could react, lowering to his throat where they clamped on. Draco cried out, his body coming to life, his pulse rate skyrocketing.

“When we’re married, I’m going to fuck you so dirty,” Harry said between bites and licks and kisses. “Married people can fuck as dirty they want and it’s still romantic.”

“You already fuck pretty dirty,” Draco pointed out, and Harry confirmed this by shoving a hand down the back of Draco’s trousers and cupping one buttock. He couldn’t help the guttural sound he made. “And we’ve already abandoned the concept of foreplay, I see. It’s like we’ve been married for years.”

Then he gasped as Harry’s other hand snaked between them and found his erection.

“I’m okay with that, by the way,” Draco clarified. “The whole no-foreplay thing, I mean.”

Harry’s eyes were on his face, reading every reaction, narrow and hard even as he yanked open Draco’s trousers and shoved his fingers inside.

“In case I wasn’t clear,” Draco gasped. “Oh, fuck.”

“It’s been too long,” Harry said, still staring at Draco like he was something edible and Harry hadn’t eaten in months. “I can’t wait.”

Harry’s hand was strong and solid and Draco couldn’t keep his hips from lifting, not that he really wanted to. It _had_ been too long, and after all the worry and the upheaval, all he wanted was Harry inside him, however it had to happen.

“Then get some fucking lube, you lazy bastard,” Draco ordered harshly, and drove his fingers into Harry’s hair, which was really only dry in front; the back was still dripping a bit. He didn’t care. He used his grip to pull them into another kiss, a hard, fast one, wet and slick and hot, while Harry was yanking his own trousers open, and Draco was trying to kiss him and kick his shoes off at the same time, and he accidentally hit Harry in the bollocks with the buckle on his belt—“Christ, that hurt. You realize those will come in handy for what we’re about to do, right?” and then “I said I was sorry, you whinging little…oh, Merlin, do that again”—and he lost track somewhere and wasn’t quite sure how but he ended up on the sofa, on his back, and Harry was between his thighs, ripping at his shirt so that buttons pinged everywhere even though he was already bare from the waist down.

“I liked that shirt,” Draco panted.

“If you have to use your mouth, do something constructive with it,” Harry said, and he sat up, which was when Draco realized that the reason he could feel all of Harry’s wonderful skin was that Harry was naked.

“Were you even wearing pants?” Draco asked incredulously, because that was hot. One of the few perks of a household chore-resistant boyfriend was that he often went without because that was easier than doing laundry. And Draco appreciated it every single time.

Harry said, “Shut up,” and yanked Draco forward. Draco opened his mouth wide, taking Harry in because he believed in rewarding good behavior, and besides, he could _taste_ Harry’s desperation, found himself unable to resist the little noises Harry was making. So he shoved Harry back, getting into a better position, and then he eased his way down, down, deep as he could go, stroking with his tongue and licking and swallowing, tasting soap and skin and salt and he felt whorish and generous and loving all at once, a combination that he liked quite a lot, so he kept doing it, and in less than a minute Harry was pushing him away, panting _wait, wait, wait._ Draco smirked.

“Really, Potter?” he asked smugly. “Some savior.”

And maybe there was something to taunting Harry, because that got Draco turned over roughly and smacked hard on the arse. Draco froze for a second to let the instantaneous heat in his gut dissipate so he could breathe, but Harry was already saying, “Fuck, I liked that. Did you like that? Because I think I liked that.”

“Uh-huh,” Draco said dimly.

“I know what we’re doing later,” Harry said.

Draco wasn’t really listening: lube-slick fingers were already pushing inside him. "Okay.”

"You’re very biddable after I’ve spanked you,” Harry said. “If I’d known that…Christ, you feel amazing.”

"Amazing is better than biddable," Draco managed, then moaned. "Say more things like that. Say nice things about me."

“Christ, look at that arse. Spread your legs. Wider.”

“This is the most romantic sex we’ve ever had,” Draco said, well aware that his dignity was somewhere in the toilet, judging from the way he was barely balanced on the sofa and laughing like a loon. “I don’t know why you think we need to get married to have this be romantic.”

Harry chuckled even as he pushed his fingers in with the speed of a glacier melting, and pulled out even more slowly, smooth and soft, curling his fingers with unerring accuracy, licking along Draco’s buttocks and interspersing the occasional bite, teasing and easy and hot, and Draco rocked back into it, moaning like he was cheap and not even able to care.

“I’m going to cut you,” Draco breathed. “If you don’t fuck me already.”

“We’re gonna do it face to face. Married people only have sex face to face,” Harry muttered, his lips tickling the skin of Draco’s hip.

"That sounds thrilling,” Draco gasped, letting out a very unseemly sound as Harry pulled his fingers loose in order to slick up his cock.

“Roll over,” Harry grunted, and Draco obliged, smirking until he caught a glimpse of the dark intent in Harry’s face. Then he shivered.

Harry’s strong hands pushed Draco’s thighs apart anew and then cupped Draco’s buttocks, tugging him up and forwards so that he was open and lifted. Draco felt vulnerable and overwhelmed and he _wanted_ it. And Harry knew, of course he did, with his expression ruthless and hot, his mouth a thin line of need, and then he was pushing in, hard and thick and merciless, shoving inside, making room, and Draco’s fingers clutched at the cushions even as he spread his thighs wider and yielded, giving everything he had.

"Say something dirty," Draco gasped.

"Oh, fuck." Harry’s eyes were squeezed closed, his teeth locked together.

"Something else," Draco moaned, gripping Harry's shoulders compulsively because this hurt in all the best ways, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made Harry do this a week ago. “’Fuck’ isn’t very original.”

Harry bit out, "If you want originality, you should pick a different time for this conversation. Oh, God, do that again."

"Say something dirty," Draco insisted, going still until Harry obeyed.

"I love you,” Harry said, not moving either.

Draco opened his eyes, exasperated and fond and amused all at once. Because Harry was so… _Harry_. And just now, Harry was looking back with impossible clarity in his eyes. As if he saw Draco just as clearly as Draco saw him.

“Do you not get how this works?" Draco asked, then added a playful hint of suspicion to his gaze. "Are you trying to make love to me, you kinky pervert? Because I don't do that sort of thing. I'm not that kind of boy."

“That’s what I was aiming for,” Harry said, grinning suddenly so that the nearly-frightening strength in his face fell back. Now he looked so young and happy that Draco’s heart clenched in his chest.

And it was really easy to say, “Yeah, I love you too.”

Then Draco couldn’t think anymore, even sweet stuff like that, because Harry was moving roughly within him, working Draco open, demanding and fast and Draco’s mind whirled madly as his limbs liquefied and his spine turned to jelly and the heat, oh, fuck, the heat, coiling inside him and he was leaking all over the damn place, aching for it, and at some point Harry hitched him up even higher, and then his cock was in exactly the right spot.

Again and again Harry thrust, shoving them across the sofa in little bursts, his groans deep and wild, his hands bruising, his eyes fixed on Draco’s face, hunger making his expression almost harsh. As if he craved Draco so badly that everything else about him was stripped away, leaving only the need and the strength to fulfill it.

Draco got lost, devastated by the immensity of it, blind to everything but the pounding inside him, the impossible stretch, the burn just under the hot, dense, welling pleasure, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only lift his hips and beg wordlessly for more, which Harry delivered, Harry always delivered, which was good, because the only thing keeping Draco corporeal, keeping him here, was Harry inside him and around him and with him.

When he came, all the strength left his body, and he started to fall off the sofa. But it didn’t matter.

Harry was there to catch him.

*

Despite everything that Draco had said, Harry couldn’t help counting the minutes as they caught their breath. Draco was snuggled in tight beneath him, but in the past it had only ever taken five minutes or so before Draco was squirming and snapping to get away, and Harry was prepared to let him go this time too. He was ready.

It didn’t mean everything else was false, he told himself.

But five minutes passed, and then seven, and finally ten, and the whole time, Draco kept his hips curled upwards as if all he wanted was to keep Harry's cock inside him indefinitely. He sighed and cuddled and gave Harry soft little kisses, kisses that had Harry swallowing hard and forcing down the urge to spill every silly, syrupy feeling he had. When fifteen minutes had passed, Draco was still wrapped firmly around him, clinging like a koala to a branch.

That was when Harry went from hoping to knowing.

He nuzzled Draco’s temple, pressed kisses along his jaw and hairline before he politely tried to ease to the side.

“Stay,” Draco murmured.

“This can’t be comfortable for you.”

“So comfortable.”

Harry smiled. “I have to be crushing you. I outweigh you by, like, three stone.” He paused. “It’s all muscle, by the way.”

"Then get more muscles," Draco mumbled. "Gods, you feel good heavy. Like you’ll never go anywhere. You should work out more."

"Can't I just get fatter?" Harry asked, amused and fond. “It'll be faster to get fat. I'll be heavier in, like, three days. On Molly's cooking, it'll be no trouble at all."

“No,” Draco said, and pinched him.

*

They fucked again later, fast and dirty, full of gnashing teeth and clawing fingers and knocked-over furniture. Books fell from the shelf, and Harry accidentally bit Draco’s lip so hard he had blood running down his chin, although they found this a relatively unimportant detail until they’d both come, breathing like racehorses, grinning at each other like feral dogs.

They stopped for water and a brief debate about weddings held at Manors vs. Burrows, a debate that turned into an argument of sterling volume and vehemence until they realized that neither one of them really wanted to go through that hellish process at all.

They decided to elope. Draco liked Italy. Harry was interested in Spain. They eventually decided on Greece.

They had a third round then to celebrate their new skills in matrimonial compromise, this time fucking in near silence, with Draco curled over Harry, hips working slow and rhythmic, his lips tracing Harry’s chest and neck and face, and Harry’s hands clutching tightly on Draco’s thighs as he ground up into him. It was the kind of sex filled with long looks and gripping fingers and shaking breaths, the kind that took everything away from you and left you limp and warm and on the verge of tears.

This was completely ruined, of course, by Draco’s sense of occasion, as demonstrated by his first comment afterwards.

“No more sex. I don’t think there’s room for any more come in my arse.”

“And you call me uncouth,” Harry said, and laughed until his eyes watered.

They talked more then, about nothing and everything, about Harry’s job (which he was ninety percent sure he would go back to, now) and Draco’s brewing, about how Harry liked not having to hold Draco down. At some point they moved into the kitchen, where they sprawled on conjured mattresses and pillows to eat ice cream from cartons and watch the sun come up through the big kitchen window.

“We’re going to have to tell my mother when we get back,” Draco said, going cross-eyed to study the melting strawberry on his spoon. “She’ll be impossible if she finds out from anyone else. And you’ll want to tell Weasley and Granger, I suppose.”

“Yeah. No one else for a while, though,” Harry said, leaning back on one elbow and using his other hand to tap the spoon against his lip as he considered. “And while we’re on the subject of Ron and Hermione, uh, we sort of owe them a couple of kids.”

“You explained to them the unlikelihood of two men actually reproducing, yes?” Draco asked lazily, licking his lips. “But we can always adopt like, four or five, and then just give them the ones that are snotty and gross.”

Harry laughed, utterly charmed by Draco’s thinking on this because, really, why wouldn’t you have kids that way?

Draco put his spoon back in the container and played with the lid with one finger. After a minute, he said, “You know what the Creature told me once? It said that It was lucky that It had come across me, because I wasn’t using my life anyway.”

Harry sat up, ice cream forgotten, mouth pursed. “You didn’t believe that, did you?”

“It was true.”

“Draco—”

“No, Potter, it was. I wasted a lot of time being scared and holding back and I don’t want to do that anymore. Especially with you. And I don’t want you to think that this is some temporary impulse born out of relief or something, because it isn’t. This feeling’s been here for a long time. I just didn’t know the name for it. So you can trust it, okay? It’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.”

“Okay,” Harry murmured. He reached out, pushed the strawberry ice cream aside, took Draco’s wrist, and pulled him over so that Draco was lying down at his side. They fumbled a little getting into a decent position, all knees and elbows and bumping into each other and it was brilliant.

Once they were comfortable, Harry forced himself to say, “I left you. While you were in hospital. I thought you weren’t going to wake up, and it was really, really hard to sit there and watch you…” He trailed off, waiting for the inevitable fireworks. But Draco surprised him again.

“I’m okay,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“I know. I’m—It’s not about that. I’m saying you don’t have to feel like you’re the fuck up and I’m the one who has it all figured out. It’s not like that. I shouldn’t have left you.”

“You didn’t,” Draco said dryly.

“I came back, but that doesn’t change—”

“It’s not about where you’re standing, you moron. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that all that other crap doesn’t matter. It’s about what’s in your chest. And even when you were here, crying in the damn bathtub and hadn’t seen me in days, you were still with me. Everything in you was wrapped up in me. You don’t know how to leave, Harry. That’s part of why I love you.”

Harry shifted, looking down to meet Draco’s eyes, and he had to swallow before he ended up embarrassing himself all over again. “How did you know about the bathtub…Goober. Of course.”

“He made you sound quite pathetic. There might have been miming.”

“It was very manly crying, actually,” Harry said, trying to be annoyed but feeling way too content to pull it off.

“Is there any other kind?” Draco asked.

They watched as the navy sky became a kaleidoscope of color. The sun crested the horizon fully around that time, sending a warm glow through the kitchen.

“’S’nice,” Draco whispered. He sounded sleepy, and he shifted, naked and pale and warm, pressed tight next to Harry as if he could never be pried away.

They’d done all of this a bit backwards, Harry thought, fighting to stay awake. They’d had the night full of wild, passionate sex before getting married, but that was all right. They did a lot of things backward. It was sort of turning into a tradition.

And he didn’t really care about the rest of it anyway. He had what he wanted: Draco here and open and loving him back.

The rest of it was just decoration.

“It’s like that first day,” Harry murmured, quietly enough that Draco would be able to pretend not to hear him if he wanted to.

Instead, Draco sucked in a breath as if surprised by Harry’s thinking. He swallowed once, thought for a moment, and then said, “Yes, it is.”

Harry tilted his head to get the rising sun out of his eyes, then paused when he caught a glimpse of Draco’s expression: his brow creased, lips pursed slightly, features still somehow soft. He was deep in thought, as if by talking about that day he’d triggered some random idea about the great mysteries of life, how the pyramids had been built perhaps, or the nature of the sphinx, as if he'd gotten lost in some ridiculously complex dream that he found satisfying and illusory at once.

It was the most beautiful thing, Harry decided, seeing Draco so wholly absorbed in being here, as if the two of them together were as impressive and impossible as one of the wonders of the ancient world.

He wondered exactly what thought had put that look on Draco’s face. He nearly asked. But Draco closed his eyes, and a few moments later his breathing evened out. And as Harry’s own heavy lids drifted downward, he decided that those sorts of conversations could wait.

They had plenty of tomorrows, after all.


End file.
